Nightwing didn't think when he jumped through the window.

He saw Red Hood's helmet from the corner of his eye, and every horrible word they'd exchanged, every way he'd failed his brother had flashed through his mind. He needed things to be okay this time. He needed Jason to live. He needed to know how a few words had turned his brother into a ghost.

'You're just going to run away?'

'Like you did for three years? Half the time, you're the one pulling the trigger!'

Something about the exchange had stung Jason, but he just couldn't figure out what made it so different from every other fight they'd had.

And then there were the whispers in the back of his mind, telling him that below the surface, he'd known exactly what to say to get his brother to leave him alone. That a malicious part of him had always known. That he'd made himself forget to hurt Jason even further.

He needed to know. He needed Jason to be all right.

Please, let Jason be all right.

"Nightwing, don't!" Red Robin yelled.

Nightwing shielded his face with his arms as he burst through the window. He shot his grapple towards the ceiling, catching himself just in time to avoid smashing into the floor. His vision was blurry, only recognising Red Hoods motorcycle helmet from the rest of the identical blobs in the room.

"—the hell—"

"—Is he… here—"

"—no vigilantes!"

"—I didn't—"

One blob moved closer, and Nightwing pulled out his escrima sticks. He thrust one towards the shape, activating the taser. The man went down hard.

"—someone do—"

"—fuck—"

The other blobs stepped back. They circled him like vultures, staying just out of reach. Nightwing couldn't care less. Where was Jason? He no longer saw his helmet in between the chaos, and no matter how much he blinked, his eyes refused to focus. Without his sight, he might as well already be dead.

He pushed against the wound in his skull like he did before, but this time it just made the edges of his vision darken, the wound itself numb to the touch.

Another blob moved closer, stretching their arm out in front of them. Nightwing didn't need his sight to recognise a gun.

He needed to act, quick. His fingers found the switch on his escrima stick and changed the setting on his taser from pulse mode, which paralyzed, to Drive stun, which was meant to hurt.

Then he jabbed it right into his own thigh.

Every nerve inside his body exploded. The skin on his thigh burned, and he inhaled deeply, shock hitting like being drowned in ice water. Each beat of his heart pumped hot coal through his chest, burning embers that ate the clouds in his mind, pushed the shaking out of his limbs. Tasing himself would have consequences, but for now, it kept him in the present.

When he looked up he stared right down the barrel of Black Mask's gun. Behind the villain three more armed men held Red Hood at gunpoint. Jason had his arms crossed, looking mildly annoyed at best.

About ten more masked Facers stood in a circle around them, spread around the altar of the abandoned church. In his panic, he hadn't recognised one of the oldest buildings in Gotham. No lights. Dark, smoked stone that would pull away black if he ran his fingers across it. Empty bottles littered the white marble altar, and moss had overtaken the rotting pews. A human sized hole in the stained glass window behind him cast bright moonlight into the room.

That part was new.

"That was quite the performance," Black Mask said. "You sure you meant to crash our little party? Red here sometimes likes to think he can add to the guest list."

"I told you, I didn't invite shit," Red Hood said. "Even though you brought twenty guns to a fucking business meeting. So talk less."

"Yes, well, we all know anything fewer would give you an unfair advantage."

Red hood shook his helmet. "You're just a pussy." It was impossible to see the look on his face, but when Jason's helmet pointed towards Nightwing, he could imagine the annoyed expression that matched his crossed arms.

God, what had he been thinking? No one had said anything about Jason dying. They'd said… that they wanted to keep an eye on him. That he might be in over his head. And in his panic and desperation, Nightwing had turned that might into a definitely.

Black Mask had always been a reasonable villain, but the odds being twenty against two could be reason enough. And if Sionis attacked Nightwing, Red Hood would get involved, making his 'rescue' about as useful as dropping an elephant into a minefield. He had to do something. Say something. Deescalate the situation.

"I—"

"The suit clearly ain't all there tonight," Red Hood interrupted. "Since he ain't invited, let's just throw him out. Ain't worth getting the Bat on our asses."

Black Mask laughed. It started quietly, then rose until the sound echoed through the entire church. No, there would be no easy escape tonight. Sionis wasn't that stupid. "Oh, it will absolutely be worth it."

He waved his gun towards Nightwing. "Recognise it?"

It was an old revolver, made from black metal with an ivory grip. Gold coated the cylinder, making the thing about ten times as expensive as practical. It had a slight pull to the left, which he knew because two years ago, he'd used it to shoot Black Mask in the foot at blank range. Fun times.

"You do, don't you?"

Nightwing stayed silent.

"It's quite the weapon, you know? Had it specially made to match the mask. Hadn't even used it when you came along and, bang—" Sionis pointed the gun to his foot, then back at Nightwing "—made me its first victim. You know how embarrassing that is?"

Jason stepped forward, ignoring the guns that followed his movement. "Mask, I ain't playing games tonight. We going to talk business or not? If you can't check your fucked up ego, we're done."

"Shut up, Hood. We all know you have this thing with the Bats. You ain't subtle."

Red Hood's head tilted down, moonlight reflecting just enough to show his intense expression behind the dark glass. "Then you know shooting one isn't gonna end well."

Black Mask laughed. "We making threats now? Whatever you plan to do, you'll have to do it with twenty bullets in your back. I like my odds."

Jason reached for his side.

"Hood, don't," Nightwing said, and Jason's hand froze inches from his gun. Dick had made a mistake tonight, one that might cost him his life. He'd already fucked up whatever his brother had planned, but if nothing else, he'd make sure Jason would walk away alive. He shook his head as Jason stared at him in disbelief.

You'd rather be shot? His body language seemed to say.

Short answer? Yes, absolutely. Not that he wouldn't try to survive, of course. But his odds weren't great with this many guns in the room.

He couldn't help but think of two years ago, when his disastrous return from Spyral had led him to a similar scene. Back then he'd been almost clinical in his approach. He'd scouted and planned, used Black Mask's cowardly nature against him. He wasn't ashamed to admit he'd looked down on the Facers. On their cheap guns and small warehouse and cheesy masks.

Today he'd made every mistake he knew to avoid, and no matter what plan he came up with, it would lead unavoidable gunfire. Cheap guns still shot.

Black Mask stepped closer to Nightwing. With his gun still aimed at his chest, the villain leaned in so close his cologne burned. He whispered into his ear.

"I thought I had you pinned, you know. Typical boy scout with a saviour syndrome. But there's stories floating around, Nightwing. Of you being just as bad as the rest of us." He cocked the gun and aimed it at Nightwing's foot. "And equal behaviour deserves equal punishment, don't you think?"

Grayson had many memories of being held at gunpoint.

He was kneeling. He was leaning against a wall.

His hands were behind his back. His arms were up in the air.

He looked the barrel straight in the eye. He stared down at red-stained concrete.

Someone was crying. Someone was laughing.

He spit on the ground. He hung his head in defeat.

And now Black Mask grinned at him like he just found a golden ticket.

Suddenly, Red Robin's voice in his ear. "Nightwing, dive towards the pews in five. I'll signal. Black Bat and Robin incoming." A flinch on the other side of the room told Nightwing Red Hood had also gotten the message.

Five seconds. He should've known his family would get involved in this shit show — they'd never be content to watch him and Jason be shot from the sidelines. He hated it, but it was outside of his control. He purged the distractions from his mind and looked down the barrel of Black Mask's gun. Compared to other weapons he'd faced, it was nothing. A toy barely able to shoot straight.

Let's hope it still pulled to the left.

"Now!" Tim yelled.

Nightwing dived towards the right side of the aisle, landing between the first and second row. Black Mask made a startled noise as he pulled the trigger, the shot ricocheting off the floor just left of Nightwing's ankle. The villain let out an angry roar. He clumsily aimed again, and Grayson pulled his legs back just in time to dodge another quick-fire bullet.

The surrounding Facers never had time to react before Robin and Black Bat broke through the windows, releasing their grapples as they flew towards them. Black Bat threw three batarangs, and the Facers holding Red Hood at gunpoint crumpled. Jason didn't waste a second to whip out his own gun, shooting the man next to him at point blank range.

Robin released his grapple and shot towards Black Mask, catching the man off guard as he kicked him in the face with his landing. Sionis smacked into the ground, his mask splintering against the stone floor like a gunshot. Robin used the momentum as a diving board. He flipped and landed on top of the wooden pew next to Nightwing.

"Let's go!" he said, pulling Nightwing up from the ground. He pushed him towards the big door at the end of the aisle.

"But Jas—"

"They will be fine. Now move, you imbecile!" Nightwing let himself be pulled away. If he stayed, he'd only be a liability. His limbs were heavy, and the corners of his vision darkened rapidly. Before long, Robin might have to carry him, and they both knew that would be too much for the boy.

Nightwing looked back at the chaos as Robin tugged him forward. Jason hid behind the stone altar, shooting hands and legs until every goon in the hideout was forced to drop their weapon or run out if sight. As soon as the Facers dived towards the wings of the church for cover, Cass took them down with quick punches and jabs. Black Mask's mask lay in the middle of the space, broken and abandoned.

Abandoned?

Roman Sionis rose from their right, aiming his gun with a feral snarl on his face. Blood streamed down his nose, and his suit had a big rip in the back that made it fall off his shoulders. Behind the mask, he looked no different from any other person. And yet, he had the face of a monster.

Robin's hand around his arm tensed, and Nightwing knew he'd seen him too. But before either of them could do anything about it, Sionis pulled the trigger.

Robin dragged Nightwing down to the ground in the middle of the aisle, debris and dirt digging in their sides as the gunshot joined the other loud noises in the church. They landed next to each other, Nightwing trying to shield Robin from the gun with his body.

Thank god for Damian's reflexes. If he hadn't pulled Nightwing down, that could've…

Nightwing stared down at Robin in shock. The boy pressed his hands to his abdomen, sticky blood escaping through his fingers. He was panting, trying to sit up but failing. "Keep moving!" he said through grit teeth.

…no.

No. This wasn't happening.

Robin looked at him with a desperate expression. "He still has the gun!"

Black Mask laughed like a hyena. "You shoot my left foot, I shoot your right hand. An eye for an eye, ey Nightwing? All's right with the world. Fucking karma!"

The villains voice was an angry buzzing in the back of Nightwing's mind. His hand shot out, and a wingding hit the flesh of Black Mask's hand purely on instinct. The villain howled and stumbled backwards, his gun clattering to the ground as he crashed into the wooden pews behind him.

Dick paid him no mind. He stared at his little brother.

"Nightwing," Damian said with a weak voice.

He was frozen. A puddle of blood fanned out below Damian, creeping towards Nightwing's feet until it drenched the tips of his shoes. Just like in his dreams.

The blood was always the same. The people he'd shot, the people he'd seen shot, the people that shot themselves. They all bled the same red.

But none of them were Damian.

Multiple people yelled at him through his comm, but their frantic voices blurred into the background. He let himself fall to his knees, carefully prying Robin's hands away from the wound.

"Grayson," Damian said below his breath, "Mask, he's… " Nightwing gently pushed the boy back to the ground.

"You're alright," he said. His hands found the wound and Robin's voice cut off, replaced by a moan. His eyes fluttered closed as he took shallow breaths, his right hand clutching Nightwing's side while the other limply hung at his side. The shot had torn a hole through his abdomen, the only place other than his heart or head that could be lethal. If the shot ruptured any of his organs…

God, Damian might die because of his mistake. If that happened… If…

No.

Damian was still alive, and he'd keep it that way. If he had to use the Lazarus Pit, or time travel, or magic, or even a damn lantern ring, he would keep his son alive.

Son. Bruce be damned.

He pulled bandages from his emergency kit and dressed the wound. The fabric stained through immediately, but the puddle below Damian stopped growing. He gently lifted the boy to feel for an exit hole, but his back was clear. The bullet was still in there, then. Bad luck, but he'd need surgery, anyway.

He tuned into the garbling voices in his comm.

"Dick!"

"Robin, he's—"

"Fucking get them out—"

"Stop screaming and—"

"Hey!" Nightwing yelled. The voices quieted down. He took a breath and forced himself to speak calmly. "Call Leslie. Robin will need surgery — gunshot to the abdomen with no exit wound."

"Already done," Red Robin said.

"Good." He felt for Robin's pulse, finding it weak but present. The boy watched him with half-lidded eyes, his hand slowly letting go from Nightwing's side. Before it could fall, Nightwing took it and gently placed it in his lap. He caressed Damian's cheek.

"Don't worry, Little Bird," he whispered. "You'll be alright."

He had to be.

Black Mask stared at him with morbid fascination. Bits of splintered wood clung to his clothes and his right arm was limp, the wingding still impaled his hand. He still had his stupid fucking gun, this time in his left hand. Because of course he did.

Couldn't he just stop? Surely by his own fucked up sense of honour, he'd already avenged himself? Mask was more a torturer than a killer, and abided by his own laws almost as rigorously as Batman. But the look in his eyes could only mean he'd taken the slight to his ego as worse than death.

An eye for an eye.

"You really are the worst," Sionis said. "I've been dreaming of revenge for years, and then you just drop in on a random Saturday, already so fucked up you're hardly worth the bullets. Where is the suspense? The drama? Getting the kid to kick me in the face was just insult to injury."

On the other side of the church, both Red Hood and Black Bat were still busy with the remaining Facers. Some of them lay motionless on the broken steps towards the altar, red smearing the stone. Others still breathed, clutching a broken arm or nose while they shied away from Cass' deadly grace. Neither of them were in a position to help Nightwing and Robin.

Nightwing gently lowered Robin's head to the ground and stood up to face Sionis.

"I'll take care of Mask," he said into his comm.

"Nightwing, no," Red Robin said. "Just get Robin out of there."

"Can't," he answered below his breath. They'd never make it as long as Black Mask held that stupid gun.

"You know," Black Mask started, "I never much liked my father."

"Nightwing, do not engage. Just keep him talking. Batman will be there in twenty seconds."

Sionis pointed the gun down at Damian's unconscious body. "Then again, my father didn't like me much either. He'd probably be grateful for the opportunity I'm giving you here."

Without hesitation, Dick stepped between the gun and his son. He pulled out a wingding, even though the chance of hitting the man first in a standoff was almost zero.

Something. Anything.

"Thought so," Black Mask said with a sarcastic smile. "You're an open book, after all."

His finger twitched on the trigger, and Nightwing threw his wingding.

A batarang sunk into Black Mask's hand. He screamed, then abruptly stopped when Nightwing's wingding hit him right between the eyes. For a moment, he looked up at his own forehead in disbelief, his hand ghosting the blade impaling his skull. Then he fell backwards, the thud of his body booming through the forsaken church like the toll of a bell. Another name Grayson had to add to his list.

With the threat neutralised, Dick pulled Damian against his chest. He breathed a silent prayer when he found his heart still beating. As he lifted the boy, his limp body felt so incredibly small in his arms. God, why did they allow this? Literal children playing superhero, facing guns and superpowers and whatever else. Weren't they supposed to be better than this?

"RR, where is the Batmobile?"

"Outside the front," Tim answered. "Cords already set to the clinic, and Jason and Cass are tying up the last of them. Jason says fuck you but the brat comes first, so you're good to go."

"Copy." He didn't look back as he rushed towards the door. If Tim said they had it handled, they had it handled. And although he desperately needed to speak to Jason, Damian took priority. He was dangerously pale in his arms, his breath coming in weak gasps. He needed blood, stat. And countless other things.

"Wait!" Batman stalked towards them, but Nightwing didn't stop his march towards the car. Of course, the batarang had come from somewhere, but the connection of the tool and Bruce only just clicked in his mind.

That batarang had saved his life, and yet he couldn't find any joy in seeing the man who threw it.

Nightwing knew he'd fucked up tonight, but he had no time for drama while Damian was slowly dying in his arms. When the boy was in more capable hands, he'd allow himself his impending breakdown.

He pushed the bulky church door open with his shoulder, ignoring Bruce's grave footsteps following him outside.

"Status?"

"Gunshot to the abdomen. No exit wound. I slowed the bleeding as much as bandages can. He's unconscious, but his breathing and heartbeat are stable."

Batman grunted.

Somewhere during the night it had started to rain, the water beating down on his back as he shielded Damian from the heavy downpour. Once he got to the car, he gently laid the boy down on the backseat, ignoring Bruce's hovering behind him.

Nightwing closed the car door, careful not to hit the boy's feet. When he turned Batman's face was blank, even though he had to be every bit as angry and disappointed as he'd been at Pier nine. If he wanted to start another fight while Damian was bleeding out in the car, Dick wasn't sure what he'd do to the man. Nothing pretty.

"Not now, B," he said, "Please, please don't pick a fight now. Please."

Batman laid a comforting hand on his shoulder, steering him away from the car. "Don't be ridiculous; obviously Robin's well-being comes before everything."

The relief of hearing those words almost made him burst into tears. With the rain, it was hard to tell where the water came from. "Thank you. Thank you." He moved towards the passenger's side, but Bruce held on to his shoulder as he glided into the driver's seat. He squeezed, the gentle touch nostalgic and strange.

"Get some help, Dick," he said. Then he closed the door and drove away.

Nightwing stared at the red lights as they disappeared down the road. Had Bruce… had he just left him? Obviously he should be at the clinic. He needed to hold Damian's hand as they prepped him for surgery, feeling his pulse beat against his skin. He needed to hear every word from Leslie's mouth as she worked. And when Damian woke up, he needed to be the first face his son saw.

As the back lights of the Batmobile vanished around the corner, he made up his mind. He wouldn't let this happen.

The rain cut his face as he grappled up to the nearest roof, setting off in the direction of the clinic. Mid-swing, he unmuted Batman's comm.

"What the fuck, Bruce!" he yelled in their private channel. "What the fuck! Why would you… You know I need to be there! That's my… You know he's my…" Even now, he couldn't say it out loud. But the bastard knew.

On the other side of the connection, the low hum of the Batmobile's engine almost drowned out Batman's reply. His deep voice spoke like he mourned his words.

"You're not safe for Robin, Nightwing."

Ice in his veins, freezing him through and through. He only just caught himself on the next rooftop, skimming his hands and knees on the gravel as he tumbled to a stop against something square and iron. He coughed, and Bruce kept talking.

"All of us tried to help you. Your brothers, Black Bat, Spoiler, Agent A, everyone. I've offered to pay for therapy. Offered you a place in the manor. Asked you to talk to Black Canary about your obvious PTSD symptoms. But you refuse to be helped, Dick. Instead you sink deeper and deeper into this pit you've dug, making all of us watch as you destroy yourself. You know tonight only happened because of you. No one needed to die, and here we are, half of the Facers in body bags, and my son in critical condition in the backseat. Your own brother, Dick. I know you don't want to hear it, but it's the truth. You did this."

Nightwing pulled himself upright using the air conditioning box he'd slammed into. His limbs barely responded, the tips of his fingers numb as he grabbed the cold metal. The half-dried blood on the back of his head mixed with the rain, gluing his hair to his scalp.

You did this.

Batman was right. He did create this hell all by himself, made every last decision that led up to this moment. He'd lied, lied, lied and lied, hoping it'd become truth. But the world never worked that way.

To hear it laid out so plainly hurt more than anything. His own words from earlier wouldn't leave his mind:

Does it really matter you didn't pull the trigger with your own hands?

Bruce went on with his grieving tone. "I know this hurts, Dick, and I hate doing this to you, but I think it's better if the others get a break from your issues. Both Red Robin and Robin have been off their game trying to take care of you, and it's just not safe to send them out like this. I know you don't want to drag them down with you."

He paused, waiting for Dick to react. But language was lost to him.

"You know I care for you," Bruce said quietly. "And you're welcome to return when you can prove you can be trusted you with the others. You have my word that I'll take care of Damian in the meantime. He'll survive."

And it hurt. It hurt so fucking much to know everything would've been better if he hadn't been there. That he was the one part of the equation that skewed everything. The toxic denominator of all his family's troubles.

He looked towards the edge of the roof. It would be so easy to fix that problem. He was so tired of the constant battle inside his head, of being a hostage of his own memories. The guilt refused to let him sleep, keeping him up as he relived every crime he'd committed, every trigger he'd pulled, every person he'd broken. It needed to end.

But he stopped himself before he took a single step.

He couldn't, no matter how tempting the silence was. Dick knew his family would blame themselves if he jumped now, and as much as he wanted to die, he didn't want to put them through that. They didn't deserve to live with that guilt.

God, imagine Damian waking up from surgery just to learn Dick had taken his own life. He could never do that to his son.

No, if he was going to disappear, he'd need to do it quietly. Wait until people stopped knocking on his door. Hide until everyone had forgotten his existence. Keep going until no one would mourn his death.

Until then, he would endure.

"Goodbye, Dick."

Nightwing stared at the abandoned church in the distance. It didn't matter how much he lied to himself. He no longer was the man he used to be. And by pretending, he'd broken more than he could fix.

It was time to stop being selfish.

"Bye," he whispered back, but Bruce had already closed the channel.

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A/N: :)