“Perservation”

Prologue

The rustic smell of sawdust felt like a friendly reminiscence, not a familiarity of routine. The tightness of the tape clung to his tiny fingers. The weightlessness of his tights felt comfortable without Kevlar. His warmth of his father’s hand upon his cheek and the gentle caress of his mother’s fingers as they worked through short hair felt…right.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll catch you,” his mother encouraged, the glimmer never leaving her eyes. “We’ve got you, my little robin.”

“We’re here for you, little guy,” his father added before swinging out onto the trapeze.

His heart ached, but he persisted as the ritual demanded. Yet as he grabbed onto the bar and swung backwards, he knew the hand that grabbed his wrist was just a little too small. Sure, it still encompassed his entire wrist, its thumb covering its forefinger’s nail, but the hold wasn’t quite as soft as he remembered, the person holding on as if for dear life. This man’s hold was softer, gentler, like the hold upon his son was second nature. He knew every inch of the boy’s wrist, every inch of ankle, every inch of his smile. He knew just how hard he needed to grasp, so he held his son protectively and wouldn’t drop him.

This man wasn’t his catcher any more, and as his father flung him toward his mother, he felt his momentum begin to slow. His outstretched hands wouldn’t reach hers, and her alluring smile was lost to her frightened gasp.

“Mom!” he shouted for her as his body plunged what seemed like a thousand feet until his back slammed into something hard and metallic. The bonds were ever the same, restraining him to the cold, unforgiving table. A simple white sheet kept any modesty he retained over the past five months, and the white coats were familiar, even if the faces bore a resemblance to those monsters who had attacked him when Trigon returned.

He tried to shun away as a large, blue-gloved hand caressed his cheek, one resembling those of the Monitors.

“Richard Grayson, you were supposed to die in the Crisis.”

Dick’s frantic eyes snapped open and ricocheted about the unfamiliar bedroom, as he forced himself into a sitting position. His comforter and sheets entrapped him against his bed, and he fought against them to free himself. He took several mad tugs and desperate whines before he managed to work his right hand out of the sheets. With help from his legs, he managed to rid himself and his bed of the covers. Huffing, he swung his legs over his bed and dropped his bare feet upon the small Oriental rug. His head dropped unceremoniously to his trembling hands.

Two months since he returned home, two months since the dream began. What was it? Why couldn’t he hold onto his parents?

He knew—that was the scary part. It had nothing to do with Bruce and their “official” titles. It was Ra’s al Ghul. He was no longer a Grayson biologically but a “Head.” He had lost the one thing that had tied him to his parents, and somehow he thought they might be telling him they would always have him. They would always catch him. They had, somehow, steered him toward Bruce, and the man had raised him to the best of his ability. But Ra’s…

He shook his head and stood. It didn’t matter. Ra’s al Ghul was another matter entirely.

Sighing, he maneuvered about the fallen warmth—he wouldn’t need it for the rest of the night—and headed off into the dark corridors of Wayne Manor. He stopped only briefly to check on Tim, who had inherited his room in the nursery, and once he saw the boy had checked in for the night and now slept soundly, he wandered down the stairs and into the main living area. Dick almost woke Alfred, but he had no need. The older man and Bruce woke up enough times during his youth to soothe his warring nightmares. He was old enough to handle them now.

He fetched a glass of milk from the refrigerator and quickly stirred in chocolate in a saucepan. Sure, the rich aroma of the drink never reached that of Alfred’s homemade hot chocolate, but maybe it would do the pinch tonight. When he finished, he opened the clock and headed downstairs like he did so many times in his youth. Maybe if Bruce was still out, he could offer some sort of support.

As his bare feet touched down on the last stair, his eyes caught sight of the cased costume. Jason’s. He understood Bruce’s need for the memorial, but the sight of it seemed like a bad joke. His once precious little brother had become a raving lunatic, and finally a member of the Bat Family had made it to Arkham.

He walked up to it and softly brushed the tips of his fingers against the glass. His eyes—they appeared like they always did, but their set…

“You should be wearing something on your feet. The cave’s floor is too—”

Dick closed his eyes and savored the feeling of weightlessness, even though he only hovered two inches off the ground. Glancing over his shoulder, he smirked up at the man standing upon the platform before the Crays. “Happy now?”

“Brat.”

Bruce lifted the cowl off his face and undid the wrap. Even with the two extra inches, his father was still taller than him, Dick noticed as Bruce draped his cloak around the younger man’s shoulders.

“You should be asleep.”

“It’s still early.”

“Four A.M. is late, even for you.”

Dick snorted and floated backwards, stealing another glimpse of the case. “What am I doing, Dad? I—I don’t belong here anymore.”

His catcher’s hand clamped down upon his shoulder as strongly as it ever grabbed his wrist. “You will always belong here, Dick, no matter what I’ve said in the past.”

“No, it’s—it’s not that. I just…I sometimes look in the mirror, and all I see are Clark’s eyes and Ra’s’s face.”

“We’ll find a way, Dick. You just have to be patient.”

“I always wanted to fly, Dad, and now I can, and—and it’s like I flew too close to the sun.”

“It wasn’t Iracus’s fault for flying too close to the sun.”

Dick spared Bruce a long, accusatory glare. “This isn’t your fault.”

“Then whose is it?”

“My own.” Lifting his hands, he moved them like a Champaign bottle-opener until they reached his thighs again and he hovered over the chasm of the Batcave. “I—I’ve been having dreams—like I did back in New York. Someone telling me I’ve overstayed my welcome. I think…I think I’m living on barrowed time.”

A batarang line snagged his left ankle.

“Hey!”

Bruce rung him in like a wayward fish and slapped his hands down upon the boy’s shoulders to place his bare feet flat against the rock floor. His dark eyes never wavered in their conviction.

“Then take some of mine.”

*^*^*

“This is crazy. You know that, right?” Tim Drake complained as he lapped up the butterscotch ice cream from the spoon. “You’re living in La-La-Land.”

Dick swirled his mint chocolate chip around his tongue and glimpsed at the men’s clothing through the mall windows. “Maybe, but there has to be something we’re missing. What’d you get him last year?”

“A watch with something mushy engraved upon it, but I got in a fight on the way home to make him dinner, and it broke. When I finally got home, Bruce said he was just happy I was safe, so it kinda defeated the purpose of the gift to begin with.” Tim parried with a furled eyebrow and recommenced window-shopping. “And what did you get him last year? You didn’t even come home for Father’s Day.”

“I met him at the office, took him out for lunch, and gave him my gift there.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Laughing breathlessly, Dick muttered something under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck.

“What? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I gave him an ‘I Love New York’ T-shirt and a few of the hot dogs from Gray Papaya.”

“Wait.” Tim snatched his brother’s shoulder and tried to hold back the laughter. “So, when you took him out to lunch, what you really meant was, you brought him lunch—from New York, which cost maybe ten bucks?”

“Hey, at least my present he can wear, and the hot dogs probably tasted better than your crummy scrambled eggs.”

“Oh, that’s where he got that shirt from? He threw it to me last week to buff the Batmobile with.”

Dick gasped. “He did not!”

“Did so!”

Sweeping to whack his younger brother upside the head, Dick stopped in mid-swing when he caught sight of a familiar brown-haired woman watching them from a window. She pretended to be appraising a leather jacket before she slipped farther into the store.

“Hey, did you just see that woman?”

Tim whirled around and scoped the area. “What woman?”

“The one in the store. I swear she looked just like—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Drake, Mr. Loyd, may I have a word with you?”

This particular woman he had spotted over fifteen minutes ago as he and Tim finished their lunch at the food court and waited on line for ice cream. With long red hair and a sinister smile resembling that of a cat as it tormented its prey, Summer Gleason wanted anything but one word.

Dick eyed her suspiciously and finished his cone with one crunch. “I’m sorry, but how do you know my name?”

Summer tapped her pencil point against her ruby lips. “Well, Mr. Loyd, I make it my business to know things not everyone else does.”

“No comment.”

“I didn’t even ask a question.”

“The answer’s still no comment.” Snatching Tim’s collar, Dick turned the boy around and tugged him down the corridor.

Summer gave chase. “Mr. Loyd, can you tell me how long you have been staying at Wayne Manor?”

Tim choked on his spoonful of ice cream, and Dick’s sneakers screeched against the tiles. He whirled on his heel to meet her snide smile. “Wuh—What?”

“Oh, yes. My cameraman has a few glimpses of you riding in and out on a few of Mr. Wayne’s motorcycles. In fact, they’re the same ones Wayne’s missing son, Richard, used to ride. Care to comment?”

Dick blinked. He knew the paparazzi liked to station themselves in the bushes, and he even saw the flashes of the cameras. But he never thought they’d write about him. He never thought they would even care. And they didn’t. They cared about Bruce.

Tim elbowed him back and took over. “Freddy’s my manny.”

“Really? A manny-bartender?” she questioned, scribbling frenetically upon her notepad. “You are Freddy Loyd of the Spit and Shine Bar in Old Gotham, right? You have made a quite a few waves down there. Seems a lot of pretty young things hang around just to get a glimpse at that back-end there.”

After the temporary shock wore off, Dick stuffed his pockets into his jacket, thankful that this one at least covered his back side, and dragged Tim into American Outfitters. “Look, Ms. Gleason, the arrangement I have with Mr. Wayne is none of your business.”

“So, then, you didn’t take a liking to the Wayne Fortune, do something with Mr. Grayson, who is the recognized Wayne Heir—no offense, kid—and then slide into his place, hoping for a handout?”

Dick scowled and wandered about the racks. “No.”

“Or when you say ‘arrangement,’ do you actually mean ‘alternative lifestyle’?”

She did not just say that.

Tim gagged. “Oh. My. God.”

“Just seems to me that Mr. Wayne has had an assortment of pretty young things—women, really—who have come into that house, some not much older than Richard himself. Now, he finds a pretty young thing here, male sure, but still a looker, and well…one thing leads to another…After all, it seems to me you’re getting pretty…ahem, chummy with Drake here. Looking to play the boy’s ‘mother-figure’?”

Taking one deep breath, Dick turned and met her straight-forth. “Look, Ms. Gleason, all you are doing is spouting rumors and falsities. You know nothing about Mr. Wayne nor my relationship to him and Tim, so if you want to print nothing but gossip, go right ahead. However, I am not a public figure, so you’ll be looking for a major libel suit coming your way. And since you don’t know Mr. Wayne’s sexual preference and you have not attempting to find out if we are truly an item, you will be finding yourself slapped with a malice case. Therefore, if you value your job, I suggest you don’t contact me, Mr. Wayne, or Tim here any further. Agreed? Good.”

Without a breath, Dick led Tim into the dressing rooms, only letting out a breath once he lost sight of Summer.

*^*^*

One didn’t rival Lois Lane for every Pulitzer that journalist ever won by being modest, and Summer slapped the doors to the side, only to be met by an empty alcove.

*^*^*

“Thanks for the save, Roy.” Dick slapped his friend on the shoulder and leaned against the JLA’s monitor womb console. “I know we’re not supposed to use this for personal matters, but Summer Gleason is a villain. Trust me.”

Red Arrow leaned back in his chair, gaining a squeak of protest from the metal. “So, tell me, Batboys. What were her claws digging into now?”

Tim’s face flushed red, and Dick simply shook his head. “Trust me, Roy. You do not want to know.”

Red Arrow shrugged. “Well, if it’s Summer Gleason, I’m sure I’ll learn soon enough.”

And that was what Dick was afraid of.

*^*^*

Stretching, Dick bit back a yawn and slouched backward in Batman’s chair. The Caped Crusader and his current young partner left more than an hour ago, leaving Dick to study the video camera feeds of the mall. He’d thought he saw someone familiar, and she had let him see her, had wanted him to see her. The question was: Why? Why had Talia Head come to Gotham?

For him? For Bruce? For Alfred, because the guy made a mean cup of hot chocolate?

After four hours of searching, he realized she, of course, wouldn’t have been caught by some piece of evidence, which left him swinging back and forth in the chair, attempting to solve a question the Riddler wouldn’t want to touch.

He suddenly stopped at the glimmer of blue reflecting in the black screen, and Dick swiveled in the seat. He stood up slowly, making his way to the case that held Jason’s costume. He’d stared at that less than twenty-four hours ago. He would have noticed the rather large blue crystal dangling from its neck.

Bruce would have noticed it.

Opening the case, he cocked his head to the side. He’d seen this crystal before, had touched it.

Lex Luthor had given it to Superboy.

It, essentially, led Superboy to his death.

Had Talia gotten into the cave—again—and if so, then why would she give him the crystal? To lead him to his death?

There was only one way to find out, and Dick Grayson did not back away from a threat. Reaching out, he brushed against the crystal’s smooth surface, and in a flash of light, he stood at the base of the Monitor Tower as Superboy Prime raced toward him.

“You think you can stand against me, Nightwing? A mere human?”

Nightwing didn’t shy away. If he could give Superboy the precious seconds he needed to destroy the Monitor Tower, then so be it. His life was worth the six billion on the planet. It was what Bruce had always trained him for.

This time, Superboy—Conner Kent—didn’t come. This time, Superboy Prime lunged at Nightwing, wrapping his arms about his waist, and together, they crashed into the Monitor Tower. Nightwing’s fragile body burned at the excess heat as they tore through Alexander Luthor’s work. His bones snapped like mere twigs against the metal, but he barely felt them as the beams tore his flesh and bled him dry. He closed his eyes and grunted back curses as Superboy Prime eventually stopped, and the massive explosion tore through the tower—not from him but from Conner.

Conner Kent was saving the world, and as he felt the rebar bury itself in his stomach, he shrieked but could do very little as the blast tossed him into mid-air. The agony of returning to Earth paled in comparison to the tears coursing down Bruce’s chin as Superman and Wonder Woman lifted the metal off his mangled body.

“D—Dad…” he rasped, but his voice depreciated into chest-heaving hacks.

“Shh…don’t talk.” His catcher grabbed him. “It’s going to be okay.”

You and I both know it’s not.

“You’re going to be okay, son.” Bruce pulled off his cowl and removed Dick’s mask. He drew the boy into his arms. “I’m proud of you. You saved Earth.”

No, Conner Kent did.

“Not without you.”

I just did what I had to do.

“No…No, you didn’t. I sent you there. I told you we’d meet up.”

And we did and we will again—one day.

Dick fought the intense darkness strangling him, gripping onto his soul and tugging him away from his father’s warm hold, and Dick once more stood in the Batcave. He heaved ragged breathes as he looked down at the crystal in his shaking hands. It rolled out of his suddenly numb fingers and clanged to the cave’s floor.

The voice in his nightmares was right.

He was supposed to have died during the Crisis.

He was living on barrowed time.

To Be Continued…