Disclaimer: Dick Grayson belongs to DC. This ficlet is being written for fun, not profit.
Thanks to Kathy and Jules for the Beta!
Red, Green and Yellow
When he was seven years old, Dick knew what he wanted to do when he grew up. He was going to be the next Alfredo Cordona. They'd talk about the Flying Graysons in the same breath as they did the Flying Wallendas. Heck, the press was already comparing him to Armando Farfan—a boy flyer of his parents' generation. Dick knew his parents were proud of him—even if his mother did warn him not to get a swelled head over his write-ups. The big top trapeze was his life and his future and he could conceive of nothing that would ever take him out of the red, green and yellow costume.
When he was thirteen years old, Dick decided who he wanted to be when he grew up. After five years of working side by side with the man, there was nobody whom he respected more than Batman. Bruce wasn't going to retire for years yet, but when he did, Batman was going to stay active. Dick had every intention of following in his mentor's footsteps one day—but until then, the familiar colors suited him fine.
When he was fifteen years old, Dick found out that he didn't just enjoy leading—he was actually good at it. He seemed to have a knack for assessing a situation in seconds and figuring out which members of the team were best dispatched to deal with it. It took a long time before he came to understand that, no, the most obvious tactic wasn't something readily perceived by everyone else. It took longer before he saw that—apart from a few exceptional occurrences—the Titans tended to listen to his criticisms without becoming angry or defensive. It frankly surprised him, since—going by his own experiences—Bruce didn't have that same skill. That gave him pause. Was he actually better than Batman at something? Dick wondered whether he was going to be the next Douglas MacArthur… or JFK… or Ronald Reagan. An alarm blared, summoning the Titans to the control center and Dick had only a moment to don his costume.
When he was nineteen years old, Dick took the red, green, and yellow suit and hung it sadly at the back of his closet. He'd worn those colors since his circus days, carrying them over to the Robin costume. But with or without the outfit, he was still an acrobat, a crimefighter, a leader, a strategist and so much more. He'd gone through a lot in those colors, he reflected: heaven and hell and all things in-between. Finally, though, he'd outgrown them. He considered for a moment, then lifted up the hanger and placed the suit on the front bar of the closet. Just because he'd surpassed the costume didn't mean he wanted to forget it. He took a new costume off of another hanger. Midnight-blue, like Batman's cape, but with accents of yellow and robin's egg blue—both to remind him of his roots. Streamlined and properly balanced to allow for greater ease of motion. He'd planned and designed every aspect and it was perfect.
Dick smiled. The past would always be with him… but his future was Nightwing.