It was late.

A perfect time to get yourself killed.

You'd been patrolling, picking a fight with any criminal that you laid eyes on.

Whoever dared say it was self destructive earnt one hell of a blow-up and radio silence. Cutting people off is nice and all until you need back up, not that you would have asked for it, though it would have come either way.

You know everyone would look back and wonder if you regretted this in your last moments.

When they found your body full of bullets, on the grimy floor of some warehouse, they would wonder if you laid there, praying that someone would come.

The truth was that you hadn't.

If anything, you were thankful. This had all been bubbling up to a close. Your recent outbursts, the drinking, the isolation, the violence. You knew it was coming, and you were thankful.

You were tired.

And now you were done.

…

Or at least you thought you were.

The pain of dying is one thing, waking up to find out that pain would continue was another.

You didn't recognise your surrounding at first, instantly trying to get up, stumbling through your panic, punching the first person you saw, only to be shoved back down to the bed you had been laying on and realise it was Dick…

“{{user}}! Hey- take it easy! It's me, slow down.”