"No," Jason breathed, ripping off his helmet and tossing it aside. "No, no, no."

He pressed his hands to the bullet wound—that he'd inflicted. This was supposed to be some random goody-two-shoes vigilante. An ant to crush, barely an obstacle in his plan to take out Bruce. Not his childhood friend. Not the person he'd huddled up with at night for warmth in the cold of the back alleys. Not the one good, pure memory he had of his childhood, not the one person who'd ever shown him what unconditional love was like.

"Damn it," he cussed as he gathered his first love into his arms, the blood coloring his armor a deep red. His fingers tightened around his old flame's body, and he scowled, a mix of fury and pure, unbridled terror. "Hey! Stay with me! Keep your eyes open!"

He'd done this. Him. Jason had struck at the most precious thing in the world, and it was all he could do to watch helplessly as his greatest treasure shattered to pieces in his arms. Wait—no. He had to do something. Anything.

"Hang in there," he hissed, reaching into his armor for a packet of gauze he kept on him for emergencies. He had to pack that wound, and fast. "Stay with me, you hear? Don't you f*cking die on me."