It's been a long time. Sad stuff, guys, but I figure you know that from reading the summary. And the title.

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Lian was crying again.

"I know," Jade rocked her daughter, "I know."

She missed him too.

The day after the ceremony, Jade was still feeling raw and crippled, but her mind flashed back to her own sister and as selfish as it was, if anyone could understand Jade's pain at the moment it would be Artemis. Maybe the two of them together would provide some comfort.

Misery loves company and all that.

She stubbornly wasn't acknowledging the truth that it gave an excuse for Jade to leave her apartment that she shared with Roy, and she'd be able to get away from the traces of him left everywhere. She should've known it was too good to be true. Domesticity was never meant for Jade.

Jade had been running since she was a teenager. It was foolish to think she might finally be able to stop just because now she wanted to.

Absently, she continued rocking Lian, letting her mind wander.

Part of what ate at her was the disappointment that he'd from something so mundane. Routine. Normal. He had walked out that door and she had no inkling that he wouldn't be coming back. That was one of the most frustrating parts. Roy had died in a fiery blaze, but it wasn't to save the world. It wasn't even to save a group of civilians. It wasn't even really a fiery blaze of glory. Just two men struggling to escape a blast.

Jade had done her own research.

A darker part of her wished Roy hadn't gone back when Nightwing had fallen.

It was selfish, but Jade wasn't a hero. Not like Roy had been.

But he wouldn't have been the man she loved if he hadn't turned around to help Nightwing.

It didn't make it any easier.

Jade was furious, but the sharp edges of her anger were dulled by her grief. She was struggling to make sense of it, and she missed him with an ache that hurt so deep words wouldn't be able to do it justice. They'd been building some semblance of a life together and now Jade was left holding up the walls on her own.

Except she'd never been a homemaker. Jade had never really had a home.

But she just might know someone who understood.

"Ready for another road trip?" Jade asked her daughter, and Lian smiled gummily, perhaps remembering the last road trip.

She snorted.

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Predictably, Artemis was no longer at the place she had shared with her speedster. Boxes were strewn about, along with a few picture frames lying on the table. The dust covered everything, and it was clear this place hadn't been used in a while.

It looked sad, and lonely. Jade could see some things Artemis hadn't been able to bring herself to move, a mug still left in the sink and a few photos still displayed. Some of them had a dog. Artemis had always wanted one when they'd been younger. The brief memory brought a shadow of a smile to Jade's face, and she shook her head.

She picked up a photo of Artemis and her boyfriend. They were both smiling, Artemis looping her arms around the boy's neck and laughing at something, while he was looking her instead of the camera.

It was the happiest Jade had ever seen her sister.

Maybe running away had been the best thing she'd ever done for Artemis.

Maybe becoming a hero, for all the pain it had brought her sister, had been one of Artemis' best decision because it allowed her to find love and happiness and safety. Light and laughter. Jade was well-aware their childhood hadn't been the best. For what little of Artemis' she'd been there for.

Lian cooed curiously, reaching out to grab the photo eagerly.

"No," Jade said softly, shaking her head and setting the photo down. "You'll get to see her in person soon enough."

She knew where to go next.

Jade went to her mother's, because she knew her sister.

It had been the place she once called home in a loose sense of the term, but she couldn't bring herself to resent her mother entirely for wanting a better life for Artemis after her stint in prison. After her mother lost her legs. The smallest part of her that would always be that little girl with a dagger in her hands her father gave her would always wonder why she hadn't been enough for their mother.

Hadn't her mother seen what Sportsmaster had been doing to Jade?

Except that wasn't fair, and for all her unresolved and firmly ignored issues surrounding it, Jade was genuinely happy Artemis had become a hero.

Artemis had always been the dreamer in their family, for all that she hid it behind her snark and her temper. Jade had taken to the shadows as if they were home. She was scarred and broken and in no way fit to be a mother to Lian. Jade had wanted to stay with Roy, but she always expected she may have to leave.

Jade took a breath, and deliberately arranged her face in a careful blankness.

With Lian perched on her hip, Jade walked in. The familiar smells and tattered blanket thrown over the couch brought her right back to her childhood, as did the woman sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of the kitchen.

Paula Crock.

"Mother," Jade greeted.

Lian stared at the stranger with undisguised fascination, drool creeping down onto her shirt.

Paula Crock smiled sadly when she saw Jade. "I thought I'd see you here soon enough."

Her mother's gaze lingered on Lian, and Jade watched as her face softened. The years had added some grey to her mother's temples and wrinkles around her mouth and her eyes, so very different from the woman Jade remembered as her father's partner.

She wanted to ask her mother so many things, but Jade's life was secrets, lies, and shadows. Truth was a currency not often dealt in.

"You heard?" Jade asked instead.

Her mother nodded. "Her door is the one that is closed."

Jade looked at her own daughter. "I don't want her to have to see this."

"I will watch her," her mother promised, and the firm, unwavering tone brokered no argument.

Jade handed Lian over, and her daughter yelped a little questioningly, but giggled when Paula distracted her by waggling her fingers. She looked away from the two of them with an unexpected funny little twinge in her chest. Jade walked down the hallway, and the wood creaked under her feet. She reached the closed door and knocked twice.

There was no answer from within.

"You there?" Jade asked softly. She was unsure what to say next.

Feelings had never been her strong suit, nor had they been her sister's. Impatience getting the better of her, Jade opened the door. The sight that greeted her made her freeze in the doorway.

"You look like shit," Jade told her sister, well aware she was probably being a hypocrite.

She took note of the new fist shaped hole in the wall, and the bruises on Artemis' knuckles. She hoped she hadn't broken anything. Besides the wall, of course.

Artemis made no move to get up and stayed in a desk chair, head tucked between her knees and her hands twisted up in her hair. She looked a mess, her hair hadn't been brushed and her face was red which told Jade she'd been crying. The blankets on her bed were rumpled. The wrinkled too big shirt Artemis was wearing wasn't hers, just as the too big sweatshirt Jade was wearing wasn't hers either.

There was something horrible about both of them losing the men they loved.

"Yeah," Artemis rasped out finally, "I'm here."

Jade stepped forward until she was standing in front of Artemis. She crouched down until she was kneeling, but she didn't reach out. Jade knew Artemis was hurting just as much as her, more recent wounds being ripped right back open.

She didn't know how to do this.

Jade could tell you what it felt like to kill a man, but she failed at being human.

Roy, she told herself.

Keeping her voice gentle, she said, "So am I."

Her younger sister looked up then, face twisted in pain and tear streaked.

"I didn't think we'd lose them," Artemis babbled, "Not so soon, they."

Artemis started crying again, unable to keep speaking.

As gently as she could, Jade placed her hands onto Artemis' shoulders and the younger woman clung tightly to her gratefully, desperate for some form of comfort.

"I should've done more. I should've done more," Artemis repeated, more vehemently each time until her voice grew hoarse and her words were nothing more than a whisper.

Even then, she still moved her mouth, words moving in a silent plea.

Jade hated it, but she knew there was nothing she could do. She wanted to run, far away, to a place where she'd never met Roy Harper and never had a little sister named Artemis.

Somewhere she could disappear, like the Cheshire Cat.

She didn't know when she started crying too but soon, she was clutching Artemis just as desperately, face buried in her shoulder as she cried for Roy and the future they'd had together. She closed her eyes and she held on.

Jade and Artemis remained in that awkward, uncomfortable position until Jade's knees ached and Artemis' back protested, then they stayed that way for a little while longer.

It was Jade who dragged Artemis onto the bed, and the two of them curled up together, the way they did when they were small and the heating in their apartment either broke or hadn't been paid.

Neither of them fell asleep until most of the night had already passed, keeping their own silent watch.

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Sometimes Kaldur felt much older than he was. This was one of those times.

Kaldur kept his hands stuffed into the pocket of his jacket, staring up at the large statues.

The familiar grief rose up, almost overwhelming in its intensity, but he let it come. He looked at the faces of his friends.

The statues were larger than life, much like the men he had known. They were only the uniforms, the masks, the superheroes, but the men behind the masks had been so much more than their identities. The man behind the mask had made the hero.

Now they joined the rest of the fallen heroes here.

He held onto his memories of them as they were, bright and blazing and fierce and devoted and intelligent, loyal and sharp, clever and sometimes so very stupid. Compassionate and hard working. People he'd been proud to call his friends.

That didn't mean they were without their flaws.

He owed all three of them fifty bucks.

"Wally won the bet," he told them, though there would be no reply.

Years ago, back when they had been much smaller, the world had felt much bigger, and they had felt much more invincible, they'd made a bet. It was just a dumb bet between friends, and Kaldur had protested that it was in poor humor. Roy, he recalled, hadn't been too happy about it either.

Wally and Dick had started it. They'd each bet fifty bucks they'd be the one to die first. Loser owed the other one fifty bucks, even if fifty bucks wouldn't do a dead man much good.

That was years ago.

Those years and the experience that came with them made their jokes, in hindsight, seem naïve.

Kaldur hadn't mentioned the bet to either Dick or Roy when Wally had died. He suspected at the time they had remembered, but he wasn't able to ask them now. Three of his oldest friends, dead before thirty. He couldn't recall the last time he'd hugged either of them.

The last time he had talked to Dick, the younger man had told him he needed a break.

Kaldur felt like he was the one who needed a break now. This life wore on you until you felt the exhaustion down to your soul. He sighed, deeply, regretting that he hadn't spoken much to Dick before he passed. He thought of Lian, and Roy's fierce love and devotion to his daughter.

Since his return, Kaldur had taken to wandering the hallways when he couldn't sleep.

Lately, that had been more often than not.

He couldn't help Roy and Dick anymore, but there was everyone left behind.

At a loss, he offered, "Bart misses you. As do the others."

As team leader, it was his job to watch out for the others, but there was no quick fix for this kind of pain. Bart, Kaldur knew, felt guilty this had happened.

He had found the young speedster the other might, papers with illegible scribbling everywhere, insisting it hadn't been meant to go this way. Kaldur had stayed up half the night coaxing Bart to bed, until he eventually passed out from exhaustion.

He knew all too well what Bart was feeling, but it wasn't exactly easy for Kaldur to talk to the others when they were all looking toward him for guidance. Perhaps he could give Dinah a call, another adult who knew Roy and Dick.

Kaldur looked down again.

He still owed them fifty bucks.

He repeated hollowly, "Wally won the bet."

Such a little thing, that bet. They weren't those children anymore.

They hadn't fully comprehended the meaning behind the jokes. Or maybe they had and joking about it had kept them sane.

Kaldur missed them. He took a breath.

"Until next time, my friends."

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The holographic was damn near perfect, but to Tim's eyes, it didn't look quite right.

Nightwing stood in front of him in all his glory, immortalized and larger than life.

Tim wasn't sure how much he cared for the statue, or even the persona of Nightwing.

He cared about the man who had been underneath the mask.

Just don't die, okay?

Tim wondered if, wherever his brother was now, he'd appreciate some of the irony in telling Tim not to die, but then he ended up dying first. Dick would probably shrug, and a bit sheepishly add that he should've taken his own advice. Then he'd laugh and tell Tim not to follow his example.

It didn't feel like Dick was dead, still.

Tim hadn't been talking to him all that much before everything had happened, so this didn't feel much different.

The realization of his death crept up on him subtlety, in quiet moments.

He'd see Dick's name in his text messages. He'd see in Wayne Manor the door to Dick's room closed. He'd see a box of half-finished Captain Crunch cereal on top of the fridge that Alfred had once threatened to throw in the trash. Socks or old sweatpants that were hand-me-downs from Dick. A photo pinned up on Tim's wall.

Little things.

He sometimes found there was so much he wanted to tell Dick and Dick wasn't there to tell it too.

Tim would have moments where he doubted himself, or just wanted someone to joke with or talk with, and he just.

Well.

Tim was coping, for lack of a better term.

It felt like everyone around him was falling apart, so he had to be coping. All of this was terrifying, and Tim had no shame in admitting that. The fear helped ground him, but most of the time all he felt was numb. He'd spent a while burying himself in code. The Batcave computer now had very advanced firewalls, as did the Justice League and Team computers.

"Hey," Tim tried saying. His voice cracked.

Looking down, he scuffed the ground with his feet and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Tim knew he looked horrible, and Dick would probably go immediately into mother hen mode if he saw him, but it was hard to care at the moment. He had trouble keeping food down. His school assignments, at least, were still being completed.

Part of his frustration came from the inability to inform anyone in his civilian life what was happening. They were worried about him, and not bothering to hide it, but Tim only said he was stressed about school.

Anything but the truth.

That was what he'd signed up for in this line of work.

He looked back up.

"I miss you," Tim tried again, this time managing to get the words out.

They were barely audible.

His eyes stung and Tim blinked rapidly, not wanting to cry with the mask on. Dick would know what to say, if he was here. He probably wouldn't shut up, and he'd give Tim food to eat, and he'd give Tim a hug or tell a joke. He'd pull Jason away from whatever spiral the other boy was heading down into, he'd share tea with Alfred, he'd stop Bruce from being so very pale and withdrawn, he'd ease some of the pressure.

He'd know what to do.

Tim felt utterly, completely useless.

A few tears pooled in his eyes and he inhaled a shaky breath.

He caught sight of Roy's statue, and he hoped that in the end they'd been able to provide each other some measure of comfort. Tim had never been close with the archer, but he'd known him, and he saw what Roy's death did to everyone else.

Two deaths after another, a double blow that left all of them on their knees and gasping for breath. They'd recover. Tim knew they'd have to. He wondered what they'd look like afterwards.

He nodded at Dick's statue, then Roy's.

Then Wally's, for good measure.

"Talk later," he croaked out.

Tim walked away.

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Time, supposedly, was said to heal all wounds.

Whoever came up with that saying, Jason wanted to tell them to shove it up their ass.

It felt more like his lungs had been ripped out of his chest and he was left trying to breathe. There was the grief that took his breath away and there was the guilt. There were the tears burning his eyes and the snot running down his nose.

Some days felt better than others.

A selfish part of him wondered if that was what the others had felt after his own death. Had they cried this hard? Did they reach for their phone, scrolling through their contacts and knowing if they made that call the person on the other end wouldn't pick up ever again? Did they listen to his voicemail message box, face twisting in a silent scream as they heard his voice again and remembered what they lost?

Mostly, he felt too in shock about the whole thing at first. He searched for oblivion in the bottom of a bottle, and then he searched for an outlet by yelling at everyone. But that hadn't made him feel better, even if Jason wasn't that close with the others.

Tim, they'd had a rocky start.

Bruce and Jason seldom talked.

He felt a bit bad for Barbara, but Jason still hadn't really talked to her.

There were other Bats, he knew, but they didn't want much to do with the black sheep of the family.

The last time he'd seen some of them had been when he'd been decidedly drunk, though not too drunk he didn't remember. He was admittedly satisfied he'd gotten to speak his mind, but it was a hollow victory. Jason's own pain, his own anger, didn't mean he was oblivious to the pain of everyone else. Dick had been friends with a lot of people, even if from what Jason of the Invasion everyone had really been messed up.

Dick had seen something in Jason that meant Dick kept reaching out despite the snappish remarks and the scars and the guns and the bullets and the blood on his hands. It made Jason curse his past self for being an idiot. It made him wish Dick had never reached out in the first place. Blind hatred and anger had been much easier to deal with than grudging respect and affection. It made Jason wish that he'd reached back just a little.

Except he hadn't and now he couldn't and Jason had to live with that.

He wasn't sure how. He hadn't been doing a very good job living before this. He did know what he could do, however. Because everyone was acting mournful and accepting about, numb with shock and grief they were ignoring the obvious. Someone, or multiple someones, was responsible for the explosion. They'd already signed their death warrants, and he just needed to come collect.

He'd been doing better recently. Not so many deaths.

Jason may not know how to live, but he did know violence. He also knew what it felt like to die in an explosion, and while he didn't know what crawled out, Jason knew what he exactly he was capable of. He wasn't how he used to be. He was darker, jagged bits of him poking out here and there always ready to cut someone getting to close.

He'd died and come back.

That part of him that craved the violence, the fire in his blood, demanded revenge.

Retribution.

Dick wouldn't have wanted Jason to kill for him. He'd probably have been horrified by it, but he wasn't around to pull Jason away from this particular cliff.

Someone was responsible.

Jason already had so much blood on his hands. Really, what was a little more?

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I am so tired and I am going to bed. I am so sorry about doing this to all of them but also not really, if you know what I mean? This chapter was a bit difficult to write, but shoutout to godgirl9124 for the encouragement.

I'm on Tumblr as RingwraithMD, so feel free to come talk.