moon

His batarangs were scattered across the floor of the alley, his utility belt still somewhere in the warehouse they were previously locked in. They’d just barely got out in time before one of them had gotten a hold of Robin and held the muzzle of a gun to the side of his head. All his contingencies were out the window.

Damian was severely injured already; broken fingers, collarbone and a suspected dislocated shoulder that seemed to get worse during the struggle in the alley.

He had no choice. Damian was incapacitated. He was barely awake, let alone able and fighting enough to get the gun away from his head.

And Bruce, in a moment of weakness, just panicked.

The other guy was lying on his side after Bruce rendered him unconscious but not before shooting a bullet through his knee. He left the blood and burn through his own joints, at the copper piercing through the plated armour. His hands didn’t shake when he made the decision.

He barely even thought about it before he picked up the gun on his side, left by another goon who’d been knocked out earlier, and fired.

Still, his hands shake as the ringing from his ears die down, smoke hazing his view of the dead body in front him.

Fuck. Fuck.

He just shot someone.

The nausea comes in a heavy wave. His stomach roils as he leans down to gag at the blood seeping out of the body, coating Damian’s boots in that sticky red substance that coated his dress shoes all those years back on the way home from the theatre.

And in that moment, he betrayed everything he once stood for.

Damian stirs beside him, slowly coming back to consciousness as he processes the scene in front of him.

Bruce is still on his knees, just like he was all those years ago. He’s not really sure he ever got up.