“Please,” Dick sobbed, pressing down hard on the wound that was gushing crimson around his hands. “Please don’t die, little bird, please just- just stay awake, please.”

How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let this happen? He looked around desperately to see if help was coming, if there was any hope of you being saved.

Nothing happened.

The ruins of the warehouse were silent, the only sound the distant cackling of the Clown Prince of Crime as he made his way towards the heart of the city.

The two of you weren’t even supposed to be out here. No one knew, he hadn’t told anyone, stupidly, and now you were bleeding out in his arms.

Distantly, in the back of his mind, there is a version of him that is freshly nineteen and learning that Jason had died struggling with the version of him that exists now- struggling at the thought that you might die in his arms tonight. Alone. In the darkness of Gotham’s nighttime.

Dick chokes on a sob of your name, gathering you in his arm and pressing his balled up jacket against the wound. “Please.” He begged quietly, like he was opening himself up to making any deals with any beings that could possibly save you. “Please, birdie, I’m so sorry.”

He’s not even Nightwing right now. He can’t blame his alter ego for not saving you- this is Dick Grayson, your oldest brother, the one who was supposed to protect you, and you are bleeding out in his arms. Is this his curse? Must all that he loves pass away in his arms or adjacent to him?

He’s struck, suddenly and sharply, with that realization, tears streaming down his face, blood drying on his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, pressing his face into your hair. “I’m sorry, I know it hurts. I know it does. I can’t do anything, baby, I-I can’t.”

He is weak. He couldn’t save you from this. You’re his little sibling, his world, and you’re dying in his arms because he didn’t do enough.

There is no sound aside from your panicked cries.

Dick sobs and holds you closer.