So here is Ch 14! The beginning part is partially flashbacks, but it is relevant.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
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Here is something they do not tell you about being a hero: you will lose someone, and when you lose someone, well.
You will never be who you were before.
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The gun in Joker's hands went off. This is the day he fell; this is the day he gave up on Robin.
He was gasping, fingers scrambling for purchase as he fell backwards off a building two stories high. He was in free fall, plummeting to the ground, and there was no net at the bottom, no one there to catch him because they were gone. The hole in his chest burned from the bullet Joker had shot.
In his heart, perhaps more than anything, he was an acrobat, and the first thing his parents had taught him was how to fall.
So Dick twists his body and the impact with the ground really didn't hurt all that much, not compared to the hole in his chest, the figurative and the literal one.
"Richard," Mary knelt gently beside the little boy. Her blue eyes, so like his own, were sad and knowing. "There is something you should know."
"You're not my father," he said furiously, spitted it out with gritted teeth and clenched fists.
Dick was walking away and his back was turned as Batman let him walk away. Bruce did nothing to stop him. The tear tracks drying on Dick's face were a stark contrast to Bruce's seemingly uncaring face. Alfred watched with quiet disapproval. Dick wasn't planning on coming back. The bag on his shoulder only proved that.
It was only years later that he would learn that no matter where he went, no matter who he became, no matter what he did, it would always lead him back here.
And yet those words still lingered between them. If they were honest with themselves, they both knew it was a lie. But the masks they wore didn't permit softness. Because then they would be used to destroy each other.
Dick looked up at her with too wide blue eyes, hopeful and painfully young. His black hair stuck up in the back in a way that made him look even younger than he was.
"The world is a hard place," she told her son, her beautiful baby boy, gently, "I want you to promise no matter what happens to you, you stay yourself."
"Robin," Dick decided, "I want you to call me Robin. It's," he looked away, then turned back. "My mother used to call me her little Robin."
It felt almost like he was telling Bruce a secret when he admitted that, but he wanted to be called Robin. A way to carry his parents with him no matter where he went, and as a reminder of why he started fighting.
Bruce nodded, and the young boy grinned brightly as he looked up at his mentor. Neither saw Alfred in the shadows of the Batcave taking a picture with a soft smile.
"Find some friends."
"Who're you?" The redheaded archer demanded loudly. At fourteen, he was significantly taller than Robin, yet he lacked the experience the younger protégé had.
When Green Arrow mentioned a partner, Robin had been hoping for someone a little less foul mouthed and a little less foul tempered. The kid had yelped an impressive string of swear words when Batman and Robin had arrived on the roof top until Green Arrow gave him a warning look.
Robin's initial enthusiasm was dampened by the look of disbelief on the younger archer's face when he saw Robin.
Robin was not impressed. "I'm Robin. Duh."
Couldn't Ollie have at least gotten a partner with a few brain cells?
"No, you're not," the archer scoffed. "You look like you're still in diapers!"
Diapers?!
"Excuse me?" Robin asked, affronted.
Has this guy ever read a newspaper? Taking a good look at the older boy, Dick decided that maybe he hadn't, despite how his parents and Alfred and Bruce had taught him to never judge a book by the cover. Perhaps just this once the book was exactly how it looked.
"You take that back!" Robin shouted, and launched himself at the redhead with a war cry and all the fury a tiny ten-year-old could muster.
Batman and Green Arrow watched their interactions. Bruce wasn't too impressed. Ollie smiled fondly, and propped his elbow up on Batman's shoulder. Bruce eyed the offending limb as if he wanted to break it. Ollie ignored it.
"They'll get along great," Ollie said cheerfully, even as Robin kicked Roy in the shin, and Roy retaliated by attempting to put Robin in a headlock.
"Help others."
"Hey, hey, hey, no, don't cry," Robin said softly, his hands held up and out to the side in a placating gesture.
The little boy, who couldn't have been older than eight, looked up at the young hero with wide brown eyes. Frightened or awestruck, Robin couldn't tell. The boy's dirty blond hair was a mess.
"I'm Robin," he pointed to himself, "I work with Batman."
"I, I know," the boy said quietly. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, and Robin had to strain to hear it.
"Are you lost?" Robin crouched down, smiling at the boy. He remained alert in case anyone tried to come up behind, listening attentively to the noise around him.
The boy sniffled, then nodded.
"I think your parents are looking for you," Robin said, "Do you want to go to them?"
Again, the boy nodded. Robin stood up and offered his hand to the boy, who hesitantly took. Once the boy seemed to realize that Robin was not imaginary, he promptly latched himself onto the hero's side. It made Robin smile faintly.
"Batman," Dick said on the comm. link, "I found him."
"Try not to lie."
"ROBIN!" Artemis called out. "Where're the cookies that were on the counter?"
Her blonde hair was wet and she was dressed in sweatpants and an old shirt, clearly ready for bed after the long mission they just had. But first, she wanted to eat a cookie.
"Uh, I think Wally might've eaten them . . ." Robin offered, tightly clutching the last of the chocolate chip cookies. He kept his voice even and his face perfectly blank, as only one trained by Batman could.
Grey eyes narrowed. He gulped, and wondered if it was too late to start running.
"Be patient."
"So when are the bad guys supposed to get here?" Robin whined, despising stake outs.
They required patience, a virtue that Robin was not particularly fond of, but could appreciate. In certain circumstances.
"Patience, my young padawan," Wally waggled his fingers.
Robin scrunched up his nose. Roy glanced over at the two of them, setting his binoculars aside for the moment.
"If we get in trouble for this," Roy decided, "I'm blaming the two of you."
"Didn't they leave you in charge?" Robin questioned innocently.
Roy jabbed a finger at him. "You, shut it."
"Be kind, because oftentimes the world is not."
"Hey, Selena," Robin sat next to Catwoman on the roof.
"Isn't it past your bedtime?" Selena Kyle glanced sideways at him.
"I brought ice cream," Dick held up the two containers he had successfully carried from the ice cream shop.
"Shouldn't you be arresting me?" Selena asked curiously.
"Eh," Dick shrugged, "I brought ice cream?"
Selena smirked. She took the container that Robin offered, and the plastic spoon, happily eating the ice cream.
"Do I even want to know where you got this?" She gave the young superhero a questioning look around a spoonful of ice cream.
"There's the guy who likes me," Robin waved his spoon in the air, "I saved him a while back."
"Uh huh," Selena nodded, mouth full of ice cream.
"Anyways," Dick hesitated, and looked away. "Uh, can I, ask you something?"
"Sweetheart, you are not my type," Selena said seriously, and it lasted for about half a second before she burst out laughing at the look on the poor boy's face.
"What?! No!" Dick yelled. He mumbled, "I just needed to ask you about girls."
"About what now?" Selena stopped laughing and stared, but she couldn't hide her smile. She scraped the bottom of her container for the last of the ice cream.
"Girls," Dick said awkwardly, "I can't exactly talk to Batman about it because he'll just run the opposite direction."
"Mm, true," she nodded, and tried not to start laughing again at the idea of Batman talking to Robin about girls.
"Yeah, so," he didn't meet her eyes as he said hurriedly, "I was sort of hoping, and I brought ice cream as kind of a bribe."
"Well then," Selena smirked, and set aside her empty ice cream container. "When you put it that way, ask away."
She didn't ask why her, out of everyone he knew. What she did know was that this boy was so kind, he'd stop to say hi to stray cats, and that he looked so sad, when he thought no one was watching. So if he needed someone, for whatever reason, then she would be there.
His mother sighed. The sunlight lit up her hair from behind, and he was mesmerized by the sight.
"At the end of the day," she told him quietly, "You still have to live with yourself."
He lay curled up on the pavement, gasping for a breath of air, ears ringing and heart pounding. Dick wasn't sure if his mother would be proud of his decisions. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
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Present
He woke with their names on his lips, a terrified scream ready to tear itself from his throat. After getting doused with fear gas, it wasn't uncommon to wake up screaming for days afterwards. Dick was more than familiar with waking up screaming and drenched in sweat, hands shaking uncontrollably.
It happened, sometimes. The nightmares. Replaying their deaths over and over. He had to stop himself from screaming each time he woke and realized that they were gone while he was left behind.
Dick tried to control his breathing and his too-fast heartbeat. He tried focusing on his surroundings, desperate to avoid thinking about the faces flickering in his mind. He swung his legs over the side of the bed after kicking away the blankets. The air was cold, and his stomach growled. He place his hands on either side of the bed and paused, hunched over.
The nightmares were made worse by the fact that they were memories.
Dick stood up and walked out of his room, and his bare feet made barely any noise against the ground. He looked up and down the silent, dark hallway. Dick hung his head, running a hand over his face. A short walk later, and he was sitting at the kitchen table. An untouched glass of water was in front of him that he'd gotten mechanically out of the fridge.
He knew when Wally entered the room without the speedster announcing his presence because of the change in the silence around him. He can hear Wally's breathing and the heavier footfalls the speedster was trying to keep quiet. Most likely so he didn't startle Dick. He head those footsteps stop.
He doesn't bother looking up, but it was nice. Knowing he wasn't alone, the sound of Wally's breathing letting Dick know he had one friend still alive. He sighed heavily, and bit his cracked lips. It took a moment to force the words out.
"Do you ever dream about . . . it?"
It, not them. It, because he couldn't bring himself to say the words, their deaths.
Wally tilted his head to the side. He watched Dick curiously, and Dick had the feeling Wally knew exactly what he was talking about. They'd known each other too long.
"What?" Wally paused, then, "That I could have done more? That I should have done more?"
Dick waited patiently for the answer. He needed one.
"All the time," Wally admitted, closing his eyes, "I see Artemis going home every time I shut my eyes."
Dick closed his own eyes and bowed his head, then opened them. He owed it to Wally to look his friend in the eyes. They were both there; everything Wally said was something Dick had told himself.
Wally looked away, voice wavering as he admitted, "And I try telling myself it wasn't my fault, that there was nothing I could do. It's hard to believe that," he swallowed thickly, "When she's gone and I'm still here."
He sat down in front of his friend, watching as Wally broke down in front of him and wishing that he could do more to help his friend.
"There's this old Vietnamese lullaby she used to sing to me," Wally started, "She said her mother used to sing it to her. I don't even know what the words mean, but sometimes," he swallowed thickly, "I catch myself humming the tune."
Wally closed his eyes. If he focused hard enough, he could almost remember the sound of her rough voice gently singing the words, the song echoing in the large room. Wally opened his green eyes and stared listlessly at the ceiling.
This place felt empty.
The silence was what drove him mad. It allowed him to think, and Artemis had always told him that was dangerous. It was just so quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that made you think of abandoned, dusty halls and shattered dreams and lost friends. It was the knife in the dark, the dark whispers in the corner of your mind that made you question, what if.
The silence drove him mad above all because of that feeling of wrongness, how every bone in his body rebelled at the complete absence of sound, how his mind screamed at him that this place shouldn't be silent. And yet it was. There was nothing he could do to change that.
Fastest person in the world, and he was still too late to save her – to save them.
Dick flinched as if he'd been struck, but he quickly schooled his own expression. Wally pretended he didn't notice. He knew his friend had his own issues to work out – but not today. He could give him that, this gift of a reprieve from questions Dick didn't know how to answer, or didn't even think to ask.
Or maybe they were questions Dick didn't want to ask because he was afraid of what the answers would be.
"Wally," Dick said softly. His face was twisted with pain and grief, and it felt like his heart was shattering for his friend, his own grief strong enough that Dick found it difficult to breathe.
He knelt down slowly, not caring about the way his muscles cramped with the movement, protesting the position. He wanted to say something but words didn't feel right. What could you say to someone who has lost the person they love?
Dick couldn't say he had no idea, because that would be a lie. He's lost too many people to count.
Maybe the way they were now was both their fault, for not being entirely honest with each other, both of them so focused on appearing okay for the other's sake when everything was clearly not okay that they allowed their own problems to fester. That wasn't something acceptable to say out loud. It was just understood.
Wally was all he had left of the Team. Dick was all Wally had left of the Team. They may not be brothers in the literal sense, but they had fought side-by-side and were brothers in every way that mattered. Therefore, each of them felt it was their job to care for one another. Their job to support one another.
Dick felt like a failure. His feet were cement blocks, his stomach sunk like a stone, and the words tasted bitter in his mouth.
He wanted to ask Wally, have you found a reason to keep living?
He wanted to ask Wally, how long have you been alone?
"I write letters to her," Wally admitted shakily. His voice hitched when he whispered, "I take them to Artemis' grave and then I," he choked on the words, "read them, because, y'know?"
Dick thought he did; it wasn't something that could really be put into words, that need and belief and feeling that the people he loved were still with him in his heart, standing by his side.
"I burn them when I'm done." Wally shrugged, nervously fiddling with his sleeves. "It's become a little tradition of mine."
He thought about all those years Wally must've gone to Artemis' grave along, reading letters he wrote to her that she would never read and then burning. He couldn't rid himself of the mental image of Wally kneeling by Artemis' grave and crying.
How many times had Wally visited that grave alone?
He put his face in his hands. "I . . ."
There was a lump in his throat that wouldn't go away. Wally was standing in front of him, vulnerable and teary eyed, and he couldn't think of a goddamn thing that would comfort his friend. He took a deep breath, tipping his head back and blinking furiously while Wally waited.
"I'll come with you next time," Dick decided, because if he couldn't find the right words then he would damn well be there. "You're not going alone."
Not again.
Such a simple statement said with such finality and meaning that it made Wally's heart jump into his throat and he couldn't hear anything. Like all the times Dick went alone to his parents' graves. Like all the times he was left standing there in front of the graves of his friends. His family.
He wasn't sure if he could take losing another person. Then again, he had thought that before Bruce's supposed death so maybe he could. All Dick knew was that he wasn't willing to find out just how much he could take. He didn't want to know how much Wally could stand either.
He wasn't willing to lose someone else.
Wally felt like he was able to breathe again. "Thanks, man."
The speedster's eyes drooped closed and he rested his head back against the wall.
"Can you promise me," Dick started, then paused. He bit his lip, then clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to ignore tremor in his hands. "Can you promise me that you will not die for me?"
That you will not die for me because of me because I cannot I will not I refuse to bury you too -
It was said quietly, barely louder than a whisper, and yet saying it took away all of his energy.
Wally's green eyes stared steadily at him.
"Can you?" Wally challenged.
Dick looked away, unable to meet his friend's eyes.
"I could," he finally answered, "but then, well, we'd both just be lying, wouldn't we?"
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Tim couldn't believe he was actually going through with this. What was he thinking?
"This changes nothing," Tim stated, his voice devoid of any emotion.
Maybe he wasn't thinking. That would certainly explain this. A temporary lapse in judgement.
But as much as he tried, he wasn't able to get the sound of Dick screaming in terror, in pair, out of his mind. He suspected that it bothered the others as much as it bothered him. Regardless, Dick had refused to speak to any of them about it, and it'd been four days since the incident.
Damian sneered. "Of course, Drake. I would expect nothing less."
Tim gave them two days, tops, before they were trying to kill each other again.
Resisting the urge to retort, he stuck out his hand stiffly, ready to pull it back should Damian attempt to chop it off. Much to his surprise, Damian didn't pull a katana out of nowhere to start swinging.
Instead, Damian looked at Tim's hand like it had personally offended him, before a shadow of a look crossed his face, and if Tim hadn't known any better, he would've said Damian looked almost devious.
Tim immediately tried to pull his hand back the moment he saw Damian spit in his hand, but it was too late. Damian latched onto his hand and shook it with a firm grip. His expression was blank, as if he was pretending he hadn't just spit in his hand and was shaking Tim's with his gross, slimy spit. Disgusted, he pulled his hand away from Damian.
Tim pulled a disgusted face. "Gross."
He held his hand away from him as if it was diseased.
"We have a deal," Damian nodded, turning on his heal and walking out of the room.
But not before Tim saw him smirking smugly. He narrowed his eyes.
"Brat!"
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There are five secrets that Dick Grayson has never told anyone.
Perhaps the biggest one was when the Joker shot him on the roof top he had the briefest thought that maybe he should step to the side, out of the way, when he saw the Joker swing the gun towards him, and he hadn't. It'd been right after the death of the Team and he just, he hadn't stepped away. He'd been young and stupid and hurting.
He hadn't stepped away. Instead, he'd been quietly relieved when the bullet tore through his Robin uniform, leaving him sprawled on his back on the ground after fell, instinct protecting him from the fall. He felt relief, even as Bruce called for him and he tasted blood in his mouth and he might've broken every bone in his body.
He suspected that Bruce had seen it, that split second hesitation, and that was why Bruce had been so mad – because he'd been so worried. He'd had every right to be.
The next one was the Team. His brilliant, beautiful team, who burned so bright while they were here. They were people he'd forever hold close to his heart, and the ones it had hurt so much to lose.
The third one was more of an unspoken, open secret that Dick has long since accepted that this life will be the death of him, but he wouldn't trade it for anything. He won't give it up until his dying day. Not after seeing the rare smile on Damian's face, not after conversations with Babs, not after tea with Alfred, not after watching movies with Steph and Cass, not after meeting the people that Dick called his family, even if they were all stubborn and prickly and antisocial.
The fourth was that he loved dancing. Not just dancing, but slow dancing. Alfred was the one who taught him, and some of his best memories were spent learning how to dance and listening as the ancient radio warbled a classical tune. Personally, Dick could live without the suit.
The fifth one was not much of a secret, but it was something he had never told anyone, which he supposed counted. When he was very young, his mother had given him a piece of advice that Dick still carried with him to this day.
(He still wondered if she'd recognize the person that her little boy had become, and if she'd be proud of him. That was secret number six).
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So let me know what you think? I had most of the beginning part of this written before I wrote Ch 12, whoops. I just had to figure out how I got to Point B from Point A. Sorry if there was any confusion, I wrote present to hopefully try and avoid some of it. Any mistakes, let me know, I'll try and fix it.