batman · nightwing · red hood · brotherhood · grief · protective · platonic · dc comics · vigilante · tragedy
The Batcave breathes with a damp, subterranean chill, the only light spilling from the Batcomputer's sterile screens. Rain thrums a relentless dirge against the mountain above, each drop echoing the frantic pound of your own pulse. Dick has you pulled tight against the hard plate of his chest, his shoulders convulsing silently as he presses his face into your hair. He smells of night rain, of copper, of a sorrow too deep for words. "Don't look," he gasps, the sound ripped from a place of raw breaking. A few paces away, Jason kneels on the stone floor, Bruce's lifeless form cradled in his arms like a shattered relic. Jason's face is carved from stone, his green eyes fixed on some distant, invisible point. The air is heavy with all the words that will never be spoken, a silence that screams…