First YJ fanfic. I don't own any of the characters, etc. Please review, my shitty writing needs feedback.
Wish You Were Here , Pink Floyd "We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl/ year after year/ running over the same old ground/ on how we found the same old fears... Wish you were here." PARALLELS (WISH YOU WERE HERE)
Dick struggled to keep another sob in, for he feared his anguish might never stop if he allowed it out. Like an aged wine he bottled it all up, locking his feelings away from the world and himself. Simply put, he built a dam.
But even the best of dams can break.
Small, clammy hands, reaching out over an abyss.
The sound of tearing rope, his tearing heart.
Then even more noises. An odd collection of horrendous snaps, the crisp crack of bone as tangled limbs landed in a heap of painful death.
His mothers beautiful eyes, glazed over with tears, met his own. An unspoken conversation passed between them, speaking louder than bombs. ' I love you, my little robin'.
Dick couldn't contain it anymore as his mouth opened involuntarily and a guttural cry was wrought from his bloodied lips. His vision, obscured by the thick crocodile tears streaming from his eyes, landed on the poster that resided on the wall opposite him.
The only poster he owned.
'THE LEGENDARY... DEATH DEFYING... FLYING GRAYSONS
' Remembering that night, the dam finally broke.
Bruce sighed as he rested his aching head in the crevice created by his calloused hands. The stress of running a multimillion dollar business, being Gotham's fairy-tale vigilante, and being a father figure accumulated to a massive, malicious migraine, one which he couldn't seem to shake. Slowly lifting his head, he peered across his office until his eyes drifted to the mahogany framed photo balanced above the doorway. His ailment seemed to double as the unwanted memories the picture brought forward plagued his mind.
One shot, and then another. Two shots echoed through the night and they're gone.
His father, gunned down while reaching for his wallet. Complacent with the thugs' commands yet still shot down.
Next, his mother. She died screaming for her husband, white pearl necklace shattering as she fell. Died after her lover, died a widow.
The thug flees. Then all he remembers is red.
It's sticky, like someone spilt a soft drink, and yet it smells of pennies, overbearingly so.
And it's everywhere.
It seeps through and stains the skin of his knees as he kneels at their side, running pale, shaking hands over blank faces.
A streetlight illuminates the scene, cutting through the black. It shines down on an orphaned boy, two bodies, and blood.
He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose to stop relieving those moments, the ones that have continued to haunt him relentlessly.
'Poor Dick' He thought while thinking about the subject. In many ways, the billionaire bat and his ward were the same.
They were both subjected to traumatizing events as a young child and decided to do something about it. Remembering this, Bruce set out to find his son.
After half an hour of checking all of his ward's haunts in the mansion, Bruce seemed to find his son where he least expected.
His room.
He stopped outside the door when he heard the tell tale signs of crying coming from behind the door. Pausing there slightly as the sniffling increased and Dick's breath hitched, he hesitantly lifted his fist to knock against the wooden door.
"Dick? May I come in?"
The sniffling abruptly stopped and the sound of hurried scuffling replaced it. Rustling papers were heard and then a small "Come in".
Bruce gradually pushed the door open to reveal a blotchy faced Dick Grayson sitting criss-crossed on his poster bed, trying and failing miserably to act nonchalant. "Oh hey Bruce, how's it going?" He questioned, voice barely wavering.
If it were anyone else Dick might have passed for normal.
But this was his father. Bruce understood.
Bridging the expanse between the threshold and his son, he sat himself on the coroner of the plush double bed and put on his (as Alfred liked to call it) 'soothing, fatherly' voice.
He just thinks of it as his father's.
"I should be asking you that?" he said as he watched the raven haired teen awkwardly shift. Bruce could tell he was becoming uncomfortable.
"Hehe", Dick let out a heartbreakingly fake giggle, too much like his notorious counterparts' laugh, "What do you mean, I'm fine."
Bruce knew what he was doing, so he cut him off before he could wiggle his way out.
"It's okay chum, you're allowed to break." And then Dick did.
He flung himself off his bed, launching and wrapping his lean arms against the brick wall that was his father. A warm wetness spread across his shirt as his son's tears began flowing freely again. The sudden realisation of this made him clutch his son tightly and begin to rub soothing circles on his back.
"Shh shh Richard... It's okay... It's okay to cry." He whispered, rocking slightly as to calm the upset teen.
Dick's sobs increased in volume as he peeled his tear-stained face of his surrogate father's suit shirt to look him in his worried eyes. "I miss them" he revealed "I miss them so much Bruce." He whimpered through his despair, breaking Bruce's heart.
"So do I chum, everyday. But you gradually learn to live with their passing and deal with the grief." He admitted, gravelly voice thick with the sadness of experience.
He felt Dick unclasp his arms from the embrace and lean back into the bed, his small body seemingly too lethargic due to the turmoil. Sighing, the young teen rested against the headrest and opened puffy eyes to reveal his shocking blue eyes, bleary and bloodshot.
"I just... I just wish they were here"
'As do I partner.'
'As do I'
The scene closes on a father and son, both broken by traumatic losses, but made complete with one another.