Pairings:
DickxWally

Summary:
Wally doesn't know why Dick gets like this, but he'll stick by nonetheless.

Rating:
T for the feels.

AN:
Let me know if this is legit depressing or try-hard depressing. Thanks :]

Don't be afraid to leave a comment! It gives me a little thrill when I see [New Review] in my emails :3

Robin.

The Boy Wonder.

Partner of the world's greatest detective.

Member of the Junior Justice League.

Quite probably the future leader.

.

Richard Grayson.

Straight-A classmate.

Son of a billionaire.

Student at Gotham's most prestigious private school.

One of the top mathletes in the country.

Quite probably Wayne Industries' future owner.

.

Dick.

The seventeen-year-old.

My boyfriend.

The bravest guy I've ever known.

My best friend for eight years.

Quite probably the one I'll still be with a year from now.

.

I love him. I love him so much, and it kills me when he gets like this – when he cries, when he just sits in a corner, frozen, as if there aren't a million tears pouring from those beautiful blue eyes. When he speaks and his voice is hoarse from the yelling, from the commands he's shouted in missions and sports games.

When everything just gets too much.

And I put my arms around him, around his shoulders that are wide in comparison to his hips. Being an acrobat does that to your build. His cheeks are pink and sticky and I can see the scar above his left eyebrow (chicken pox) and another on the side of his neck (Joker).

And then Dick doesn't say anything.

His pulse throbs – I can feel it under my fingers, on his thumb. I wonder how long he's sat like this. Bruce is out, but Bruce is always out. He tries. I know that.

Dick knows that.

Alfred is cleaning and I don't think he knows about the current state of his younger "master". The armpits of Dick's T-shirt are damp, which means he's probably been here for about an hour. The cordless phone is about a foot away. He's not on it, which means Black Canary is busy with some Justice League stuff.

She's the only one we can talk to.

Dick knows that.

I kiss his temple. I lick my lips. They taste like salt, sweat, the soapy tang of the gel that has been rubbed against his skin as he ran his hands through his hair. Robin knows everything. Dick pretends to.

He never tells me what causes these episodes.

So I've stopped asking.

I didn't believe in God – I still don't know if I do. But I pray. I pray for Dick, for his life, for Robin, for Gotham. I figure that if there really is a big guy up there then he will be cool with saving an innocent boy who's done nothing wrong even with all that's been taken from him.

But I just don't know how much longer this will go on for.

Until he gets over it?

Or until something horrible happens?

Sometimes the thought brushes through my mind when he's half a second too slow, only just dodges a bullet, only a tiny scrape to bare skin, whether he's doing that on purpose. If he wants to get hurt. I count his scars with my lips and tell him he's perfect and there are never any he hasn't gotten from fighting.

Then again, cutting isn't the only kind of self-harm.

Especially not for a super-hero.

"You're so perfect," I tell him. "You've done nothing wrong."

Whenever he hears this, I see him shrink back.

Guilt.

Dick can quit the Robin gig whenever – Bruce has made that so clear.

But he feels he owes the universe for the good luck he's had, for the home he lives in, the people who love him, the education and the health and the money. He feels that, since he sees more money in a week than the average teenager would see in a year, the very least he can do is enjoy it.

And yet he feels like shit.

Sometimes I call his cellphone at random times of the day—or night—to make sure he's not...

Not...

...gone.

"I love you," I tell him.

I know it fuels his thoughts of ungratefulness, but I'm scared that if I stop saying it then he'll think it isn't true anymore.

Sometimes Dick shows up in my room while I'm sleeping. He's not there when I wake up, but I know he's been there because it smells like his deodorant and the window is open a crack. I think he does it on purpose.

When it's over, he'll take my hand, we'll cuddle up in his bed, he'll smile. I'll smile too, more out of relief than thanks, and we'll tell each other "I love you," and doze off.

I always manage to ignore all the repeats and think "This'll be the last time – this'll be the turning point."

It never is.

But I love him.

I put my faith in that.