Well, I'm sure this song has been written time and time again for numerous stories. Listening to it one time long ago, I thought, "This would go so well with Batman."
So I went to my computer and began to type. About a paragraph and a half in, I really listened to the words, and realized they didn't go together with Bruce Wayne perfectly—they did, however, fit a certain Dick Grayson.
This is my first attempt at a song-fic (don't let that turn you away from reading, though) but not my first story by far. I started writing this . . . three months ago? Four? well, I finally finished! Keep in mind I typed minimum parts over an extremely long time; if it seems disconnected or strange, sorry. :/
A/N: All rights to the song belong to MCR. I only own this extremely long and pointless drabble.
On another note, this day last year. . . . I started this account! (Thus the sudden update.)
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!
Stay awesome, my dudes!
~palmtreedragons
Dick's favorite memory was of his father. The circus was always moving, and Dick was always moving with it. He couldn't remember ever having a constant home; his home was the circus, and the people it came with. Dick liked the constant, never-ending motion. He could never sit still as a young child, always fidgeting and squirming.
After long trips to their next destination, Dick would get antsy. The adults would be at work, setting up their stations for their next performance, but no one wanted a kid running around and getting into trouble. So it was Dick's father's job to keep the young acrobat out of everyone's hair.
On the days they arrived, his father would take Dick into the city. Some were small, the buildings sparse and short and the people friendly. Others were as dense as forests, with the glass and metal towers stretching to the sky, and so many people that no one gave the pair a second glance.
Dick's mother always said he was too curious for his own good. "Curiosity killed the cat," she would coo to him when a member of the circus complained about the nosy boy.
It was after this that Dick's father would always add, "But satisfaction brought it back."
It was one of the bigger cities. Dick was older now (he would puff out his small chest and declare that ten was a very adult age) and he found trips to the city were boring. "They're for babies!" he would cry. If he went into the city, he wanted to go alone. He didn't want to hold his father's hand—how childish was that?
Dick's father seemed mildly disappointed at his son's declaration, but insisted that Dick could not go alone. His mother firmly agreed. So what was a young boy to do when his parents told him no?
Dick ran away. He later told himself he wasn't running; his father said running from your problems was for cowards. He was running to something. To the city. The city with the tall towers and the steam and the bustle of people who could care less about the lonesome boy. He was running to Gotham City.
But it had been a while since Dick had been taken into a city with his father. He couldn't tell if it was the fact that he had grown up, or if it was the city itself, but it seemed wrong. The city seemed as angry and uninviting as the people. Within minutes, Dick found himself on a city block, alone. People swarmed this way and that, always moving, never stopping. He couldn't see above the tall adults, and every turn he took looked exactly like the one before. It took a while for his childish mind to realize he was lost.
Dick spent what felt like hours running. Running from his problems and to what he hoped was home. But he didn't find it. It found him. His father emerged from the crowd of people, and Dick ran to his arms. He quickly wiped away his tears, too proud to let his father know he was crying. Scolding followed, as Dick expected, but his father could tell that the experience was enough. The two quickly headed home, ready to prepare for their performance.
It wasn't the feeling of getting lost that scared Dick—it was the people. Some were normal, ordinary people, in business suits and cellphones and headed off to work. Others were bad people, the kind his parent always told him to stay away from. Dick had never seen so many bad people in one place. Their scary faces and their grimaces and their evil looks, and Dick had been all by himself. Dick confessed to his father the feeling, and asked why some people were so mean.
His father shrugged. They were nearly to the large circus tents now. "There's all sorts of reasons, Richard." He only called his son Richard when he was emphasizing seriousness. Something important. "But what matters is people like us. People like you."
Dick scrunched up his face. If this day had taught him anything, it was that he was just a kid. What could he possibly do? "I'm suppose to fight the bad guys?" he asked in his childish, young voice.
Dick didn't understand why his father had laughed. To him, it was a very serious question. "Not necessarily. It's your job to step up to those people. To stop the bad guys from being bad. You're like. . . ," he struggled to find a word his young son would understand. "A superhero. Now, I'm not saying you should go looking for fights. I just want you to be the best person you can be."
Dick laughed now. That last part had sounded corny, like something his mother was always saying. But he liked what he heard earlier, about the superhero thing. That was something his kid mind could grasp. Be a superhero. Stop the bad guys.
You never think to savor the moments.
You go through your daily motions, and you don't think another thing. Dick had performed with the Flying Graysons nearly every day of his life. He always had, and he always would.
Until that night the rope snapped. He had seen a bad guy in the tents, and he figured it was nothing. There were so many bad guys in this town, it seemed like at least a few would come to the show.
But then the rope snapped, and Richard watched his parents fall. The image of their broken bodies several floors below was seared into his eyes. Dozens of people watched in horror, and suddenly it felt like an invasion of privacy. Everyone was watching. They were watching the workers rush to their friends' aid, only to realize it was too late. They were watching the corpses for any sign of movement, any sign of life. They were watching the boy, who was screaming and sobbing high above everyone, with the perfect view. The boy whose world was falling apart at his feet.
He was pitied. He was in mourning. He was an orphan. He was being shipped off to a boys' home. He was at a funeral, a too young orphaned boy in all black. He watched as all the people in black left, one by one, like a grotesque, deathly parade. A black parade.
The city suddenly became darker. Every person seemed like they were capable of the worst. The sun seemed to shine less. Dick Grayson was suddenly much older than he looked. Every person seemed like his parents' murderer. And soon that was all that consumed the young boy's mind. Every waking moment was spent sneaking out of the boys' home and onto the streets. His sorrow was replaced with anger. His father had said not to look for fights. But he hadn't realized that would be his last day on earth.
Dick was on his own now. He had always wanted to go to the city by himself. Now he couldn't leave.
And then he met him. The more troublesome boys were scared of the man. The man who took ownership of Gotham. The man who was trying to save his city. It was dark, and Dick had gotten over his head. He picked a fight with one too many men, and he was losing. And then suddenly he wasn't.
There was another figure there, taking out the men before Dick could blink. He was nearly as black as the night itself. Dick became transfixed with the figure. And soon, he knew the hero's name.
He was lucky. He got practically everything he needed. He had his own bed, he had food, he had clothes on his back. He was cared for. A lot of times he could still hear his mother's voice: "Brush your teeth, eat your vegetables, practice your routine." Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was back at the circus. Back at home.
He had everything he needed. But what he wanted was his parents. He wanted to find their killer. He wanted a lot of things, but he had to settle with what he needed—and he needed Bruce Wayne. He needed someone to teach him how to fight. He needed to learn how to stop the bad guys.
But he wanted his family desperately. It was only his imagining of his mother, immensely disappointed he would throw so much away, that kept him with Wayne. She was why he stayed.
He was accustomed to loss, and he was used to gore. He stared at his parents God knows how long before someone threw a tarp over them. And even then, Dick stared at his mother's lifeless hand sticking out of one edge. He stared for ages because he was paralyzed to his very core; someone had to climb up and bring him down that night.
And he had spent some time in the slums of Gotham. You had to get used to bodies with no life left inside.
But, surprisingly, it was Bruce that brought back some of the childishness in Dick. It was the stone-faced man that reminded Dick he was a child. At first, Dick hadn't liked the billionaire or his butler. They were kind, but the were strangers.
As time grew on, Dick had become accustomed to them, too. He remembered their quirks, he knew their names, and he felt a sense of similarity; but he always felt he was much more comfortable on the streets, punching and kicking and doing some good with his small, insignificant life.
Soon, Bruce was his father. Dick couldn't remember the exact time he realized Bruce was now his rock, but one day his epiphany came with a surge of joy: It was as simple as that. Bruce was his dad, and Alfred was just Alfred, and they were his family. His family.
Dick cracked more jokes—puns were his favorite. He liked to go to school. He enjoyed fighting crime with Bruce. Maybe it was because Bruce understood Dick's pain: he had watched his parents die, too. And he, too, was consumed with that rage of wanting justice. Only Bruce spared Dick from going down a long, dark path. Alfred once told Dick that he had done the same to Bruce. Just like when Dick's father told him he could do so much, Dick wondered if that was really true. It took the boy a while to realize that as much happier he had gotten since meeting Bruce, Bruce was even more so.
But it was dangerous, and sometimes Dick was panicky. Sometimes Bruce would go out on his own. He always claimed it was too dangerous, or he didn't want to disturb Dick, or some other reason. One time, when Dick was exceptionally worried, he sat by the door until late into the night and waited.
His head was racing with images of the Joker laughing as he hacked Bruce to pieces, or the Riddler spouting his nonsense as Bruce was slowly dying. Dick understood more than anyone that death was an all too real reality. And when he sat at the door late at night, waiting for Bruce, he realized that if something were to happen to his mentor, someone would need to take his place. The Batman was a symbol of hope in a hopeless city. The Dark Knight kept the criminals from overstepping their boundaries. The Caped Crusader was an anonymous hero that couldn't die. Dick decided that, if it came down to it, he would take Bruce's place. He wouldn't let Bruce down after everything he'd done for him.
And when Bruce opened the door that night, with only a few scratches and broken bones, he was shocked when his young ward launched himself at Bruce, tiny arms wrapping around Bruce's waist. Perhaps that was the moment Dick realized Bruce was his father. For sure, it was the moment Bruce realized Dick was his son.
It was the worst Dick had ever seen Bruce. A long time had passed since Dick was the grieving orphan Bruce found on the streets. A lot had changed.
Dick had retired the role of Robin; he was now Nightwing. Though the title changed, not much else did. Dick still helped Bruce with his crusade, and most importantly, he was still Bruce's son. But Bruce needed someone to hold him back. He tended to do rash, cruel things, and it took young, fresh eyes to make him realize what was too far. Dick had become too old. He had seen too much.
So he passed on the mantle to Jason Todd. Orphaned, street-rat, chip on his shoulder Jason Todd. Dick couldn't say he always liked the boy. He was stubborn, arrogant, and headstrong, and he couldn't take orders for the life of him. But he was family, the same way Bruce, Dick, and Alfred were all family. He was like a brother to Dick, and a son to Bruce.
So Dick couldn't fathom the notion when he heard that Jason Todd had died. And he feared what would become of Bruce.
Bruce was devastated, to say the least. He was cruel on the streets, and he was isolated at home. He kept Jason's battered uniform on display, a constant memory of his failure. Dick couldn't stand seeing Bruce beat himself up, but there wasn't much to do except be at his side. Somehow, they would get through this, and carry on.
Timothy Drake was good for Bruce. Persistent, but good. The teen insisted on Dick returning to the role of Robin, for the Batman's sake, but Dick adamantly denied. It wasn't his place anymore. He just didn't fit. But Dick wasn't angered when Timothy took the role himself. The boy had a family, but wanted to do some good. He was smarter than Dick, and took orders better than Jason. He was just what Bruce needed to get past the death of his second son.
Tim was originally a sidekick, a teen who wanted to fight crime, someone who just wanted to do some good. But in the end, just like Dick and Jason, he became more.
Dick sometimes reflected on what he was doing. Would his parents approve? Of course they would be proud, but they would be worried senseless, sure. Sometimes, he wondered if he himself belonged in Arkham.
He was looking for fights. He was running straight into gunfire. He was working outside the law. Every fiber of his body told him it was impractical, senseless, insanity. But something, deeper down, told him it was right. It was something he had to do, because if he didn't help Bruce, who would? He couldn't explain why every day he donned his suit and the name of Nightwing and fought the bad guys. Maybe, deep down, he still wanted to be a superhero. He wanted to be the best he could be.
Sometimes things got dark, people were lost, and bargains were made. But the darkest moment was the return of Bruce's greatest failure.
No one knew how it had happened. Not even Jason knew why he was alive. He simply was. He clawed himself out of his grave, he was a pawn of Ra's and Talia Al Ghul, and he returned to Gotham. The orphaned, street-rat, chip on his shoulder Jason Todd was alive, and wondering why he was not avenged. Dick understood why Bruce had not killed the Joker, as tempting as it was.
But Dick also understood Jason. The younger man was haunted by so much, and yet his killer was still walking the streets. Jason was angry, miserable, and hateful. He was raising hell in Gotham, and he wasn't letting Bruce forget a thing.
It was a shock to everyone. Dick was reeling when, one musty night in Gotham, he ran into a katana-wielding child. A child who claimed he was the son of the Batman.
It was easy to distrust the boy. Though he acted, talked, and looked like his blood-father, he was every bit of Al Ghul as he was Wayne. He was much more disobedient than Jason, more tactical than Tim, and his combat skills were to match Dick's own.
He was like a mini-Bruce. He was stubborn, and angry, and had a strange affinity for black. But he was still an Al Ghul, and Dick didn't trust him.
Sometimes, when Dick was a young and stubborn and fantasizing child, he wondered what it would be like to be the Gotham Knight. He often thought about the aweing toys and tricks, about fighting crime and being idolized. God, he even thought about how he would gloriously pick up the mantle after its original possessor had fallen.
It was only a matter of time. Hell, the man had been doing it for decades. Dick spent far too many nights at the door, worrying late into the night about whether or not his father would return home.
It was only a matter of time before Bruce didn't come back.
God, the nightmares were the worst. Images of Jason, fresh-faced and terrified as he clawed himself out of the very ground; Tim, or Damian, or Alfred lying broken and bloodied; Bruce, facing some tortuous end.
His nights were short.
Years ago, the days had started with Dick bouncing off the walls, dragging Bruce from bed, and starting their day, only to end it with nights fighting scum. Then short, restless nights, and repeat.
Only now Dick was the man who lacked-energy, getting a few hours of sleep at best. Now he was the man with the cape, the rock in the dynamic duo. And Damian—well, Damian always seemed to have energy to spare. Sometimes Dick wondered if the boy ever slept. Up before Dick himself for practice, and no doubt staying up late into the night.
Before, Batman and Robin were two orphans, clinging to each other while trying to avenge their family. Now, the new, different duo were family. They were all the other had. The one constant between the two eras: Alfred Pennyworth.
Dick liked to catch the headlines as he walked through the streets—his favorite was the Daily Planet. Some were glorifying; some were depreciating. Some said he was legend; others spoke myth. Either way, it didn't bother Dick. Some cozy, snuffy-nosed politician sitting in their mansion and gawking at a man doing their dirty work was aggravating, sure.
All of Gotham could hate him. It would hurt, yes. But none of them mattered when it came to opinion. Their were only a handful of people that's opinions mattered to Dick.
Most of them were dead.
He'd been beaten, bloodied, tortured—mentally and physically. Bruce had, too. Jason. . . . All his family. They'd been knocked down so many times. So many times they had to pull themselves, pull each other, up from the ground. Somehow they'd survived this long, for the most part. Somehow, Dick still managed to crack jokes.
Maybe it was because, deep down, they knew what was right. People do say that if you enjoy your job, you'll never have to work a day in your life.
His first scar was when he tripped and skinned his knee. He was six.
By twenty-six, he had countless stab wounds, bullet-holes, burns, scrapes. His skin was more silver and purple than it was pale. When he looked at himself, he saw the thin scar crossing his eyebrow from the all-too-close encounter with a knife. He saw the sharp bridge of his nose, broken more times than was probably healthy.
Damian had scars, too, littering his young skin. Tim, Gordon, they had theirs. Alfred had a gait to his walk, Jason's scars were below the surface. Bruce was the worst about scars.
They were partially how Dick identified them. Like the sound of their voice, or their subconscious twitches. They all had scars. They were all proud of them, too.
Sometimes the fact that people thought he was some kind of immortal god felt crushing. Taking on Bruce's cape and cowl, he felt a swarm of responsibility to uphold his mentor's legacy. It was overwhelming, sometimes, to realize that every soul in Gotham City rested upon his shoulders. People thought he was a myth, or a legend, or an inhuman being.
In reality, he was Dick Grayson, cop, detective, and human.
Sometimes the fact that people thought he was some kind of immortal god made him feel invincible. He felt bullet-proof (though that could be because the sting of a bullet was his approximate of the graze of a paper clip).
Sometimes it went to his head. Leaping from rooftops, staring down the wrong end of a gun's barrel—he felt no fear. Broken bones, internal bleeding, concussions—they were the norm.
They were the norm since he was a child, only on a smaller scale: bruised arms, twisted ankles, torn ligaments. His Robin persona upgraded to knife grazes, black eyes. They kept adding on, building upwards, until his pain threshold was nearly nonexistent. For a good time while he was Batman, he felt nothing at all. Only the moments with Damian and Alfred gave him feeling.
When Bruce returned, it was like the dam holding back all the pain and fear and emotion shattered. In a way, it felt good.
When Bruce dropped off the radar, it didn't cause Dick panic anymore.
He'd prepped himself from the day he met Bruce that someday he would die. He'd attended Bruce's funeral, for God's sake, even if it was false.
Most importantly, he knew that Bruce wasn't going down without a fight. He'd seen death more times than any man could count, and he always came back. One thing Dick always respected was Bruce's warning. He often didn't tell his ex-protégé of his going-abouts. When Dick would get a status update, he would know to brace himself for the worst, because Bruce wasn't so ruthless as to disappear without a word. He wouldn't do that to his boy.
Luckily, that night hadn't come yet.
Hell, they were cockroaches. The thought struck him late in the night, and it sure was an odd one. Bruce had survived an entire life of roof jumping, bomb avoiding, crime fighting, et cetera. Dick was raised into the same lifestyle, and had even taken on the mantle himself for a time. Jason had died. Tim had his fair share of near-deaths. Damian was raised by some of the deadliest mortal men out there.
And somehow, they survived it all. All Dick could do that night, lying awake in his bed late in the night (or very early in the morning) was smile. They were cockroaches. Somehow, by some miracle, they carried on.
They lost good people along the way. They fought the bad. Dick had found himself a family, all on his own. And despite the world having it out for their heads, they found a way to carry on.
We'll carry on.