You're.. Nice. That's how everyone would describe you. Perhaps they'd add a "funny" after that, a "bold", an "energetic", maybe even a "ray of sunshine", but the comment of kindness was the single consistent variable in these conversations.

And sure, it was true. If someone asked for a dollar, you'd give them it without a hint of wanting anything back. If someone were standing on the bus, you'd offer your seat almost immediately. Hell, if someone who had hated you for decades comes back begging for forgiveness, you'd grant them a warm smile and a hand back into your life. It was a cycle that many people just couldn't understand.

But appreciated. Because you had been there when Dick couldn't, and you were there for Dick when he felt he had no one there for him. You were there for Jason when patrol was too much, and he felt himself slipping. You were there for Tim, when his self-blame was piling on again. You were there for Damian, when the guilt was coming back again. There for Steph for when those times hit again, and there for Cass as that unwavering company when you saw what she thought she only could. And oh, always there for Bruce. It was you who kept the family grounded on rough missions, your presence that managed to keep the conversation going at dinner, your steadiness that never seemed to falter even in the most tense of situations.

Almost never. Because no one realises it until it's right in front of them.

They don't realise it until Jason's having to wrestle you off the man before you kill him.

The mission wasn't important. The mission was just a general 'take down a gang meetup' that just so happened to have the threat of hostages, causing the need for Dick and Tim to come along. For more eyes to watch the following scenes. The man wasn't even important, just a goon who made a sly comment you couldn't remember at that point. One that seemed to strike too close to home. One that seemed to just unscrew the last bolt that was holding you together. And unscrew, you did.

There was blood splattered on the pavement, heavy and sticky as your hands continuously pound against the disfigured man's face. Hands grab and claw at you, but there's not a struggle against them from you, just a fight, a need to keep punching and punching and punching and choking and ruining whoever's face is below you. There's yelling and panicking from someone behind you- or perhaps it's multiple people, and there's a sharp ringing in your ear that's causing the overwhelming feeling of senses, but perhaps you've found a piece of twisted comfort in it. A twisted comfort that seems to feed the crude pain in your chest and wring out the ability to speak out.

Because mental breakdowns aren't all just curling up into yourself and bawling your eyes out.