A/N: So I don't really know where I'm going with this story, I might make it into a series or just leave it as it is, but please let me know your thoughts in the reviews below :D Thanks for reading - I hope you enjoy X

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters!

-SoulReaperOfTheInnocent

Laying bloody on a rooftop in Blüdhaven, he found his thoughts drifting to the field day a psychiatrist would have, knowing about his extracurricular activities. He didn't mean the running around in spandex, fighting crime, although that would probably come up. No, he was talking about his frequent midnight 'meetings' with his brother, that left him more often than not, beaten and broke. Truthfully, he couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why he endured the pain and suffering, why he didn't fight back. Perhaps, by allowing himself to be used as a human punching bag, in some sick, twisted way made up for not being there before. Yet, in reality he knew he could never truly forgive himself, for not being fast enough. The psychiatrist would probably blame some deep - seated, emotional trauma, from his childhood. Maybe he did it for the adrenaline rush... Or maybe he just wanted to help. Considering he was a Bat, it was most likely all of the above. So when Jason asked him that very question, he couldn't give an answer. What he did know was, that whatever this, thing, they were doing, for whatever reason, it was making a difference. No one else may be able to see it, maybe not even Jason himself, but Dick could. He remembers their first encounters, the fights were ruthless and brutal and he had the scars to prove it. But at the same time he remembers when he first felt Jason begin to pull his punches, avoiding weak points, and subtly making sure he was always alive enough, to drag himself home. It was these things that reminded Dick his brother was still in there. Sure, some nights were worse than others. On a bad day, Jason could be lethal, but on a good night they did less fighting and more talking.

Tonight just wasn't one of those nights.

Crack. Dicks head smashed against the crumbling brick again, causing darkness to seep into his vision, followed swiftly by a punch to the gut. Every second it grew harder to breathe, as his bruised and probably cracked ribs, sent waves of pain with the slightest movement. The Red Hood wasn't holding back tonight. Lashing out with a knife, after Dick blocked a punch which no doubt would have crushed his windpipe, leaving a jagged wound on his side, from the bottom of his ribs to his hip. Jason had him pinned to the wall now and was screaming at him to fight back, but he never did. The younger let go, allowing Nightwing to drop to the ground, before letting out a frustrated groan and kicking him in the chest. For a moment Dick blacked out, waking up to Jason ranting about something muffled by the pounding of blood in his ears.
"Why do you keep coming back?" The Red Hood shouted, "Why won't you run away like everyone else?"
"I'm not Bruce." Dick whispered, not meaning to be heard. Jason spun around, overwhelmed by a haze of red, and suddenly Nightwings airways were being cut off.
"Is this what this is all about? He failed me, but you think you can do better?" His grip tightened and Dicks vision blurred, "Let's face it 'Wing, you don't exactly have a good reputation of saving people; not your parents, not me back then and definitely not now." Finally he stepped away, turning too slowly to miss the pained, haunted, expression that crossed the others features.
There are certain things in the bat family that you learned quickly to never speak of again; a line not to be crossed. One of those subjects was the death of Dicks parents, and even though things were different now, it didn't stop the punch of guilt that struck Jason, as soon as he'd brought it up.
"Fuck, Dick I-" Jason spun around, but all that remained was a pool of blood.

Memories flooded his mind, of bright lights and a cheering crowd, followed by screams and the feeling of absolute despair, as he watched them fall, unable to do anything. A burning ache filled him, forcing him to get up and move, run, do anything to get away from the past. Despite his injuries, he manoeuvred rooftop to rooftop with ease, focusing on each and every move he made, feeling his muscles contract and relax. He didn't stop or slow down, fearful of the pain awaiting in the back of his mind, and by the time he made his way back to his apartment, he was dripping with blood and sweat. Shaking, he clumsily entered through the window and headed straight for the bathroom, leaning heavily on the wall for support. It felt like his blood was on fire and his head pounded angrily. Swaying, he clambered into the shower and turned it on its coldest setting. Unable to stand any longer, he sat beneath the cool spray; watching his blood mix with the icy water, slowly numbing his body.

"I'm sorry."

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