Distortions (revised)
Title: Distortions on an Empty Face
Fandom: DC Comics
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: DC abuses them more than me.
Summary: After being hit by Alexander Luthor, Jr., Dick has the opportunity to change things in Robin's life, though he is thoroughly stuck in his own.
Distortions Chapter 3 cont.
.:N:.
Intrinsically, Dick knew blaming inanimate objects for his own short comings accomplished nothing. As he glared at the shirt in a pile under the sink, he didn’t care. The accomplishment of walking unaided to the bathroom had been overshadowed first by the mirror, then by his attempt at removing his shirt. He had lacked the coordination to strip off his shirt with any grace. He had had to resort to removing one arm at a time, then almost ducking out of the neck, hearing the fabric creak as it resisted his efforts. By the time he managed to get it off, his arms ached and the shirt was stretched out in three places. He was tempted to kick the shirt from under the sink, but knew he would only probably lose his balance. Instead, he reached into the shower and turned on the water, knowing it would take a moment for the hot water to travel through the tower. The sweatpants were easier to remove and he stepped out of them and slid onto the seat without a second thought.
The spray hit him from three directions, the water pressure high enough he could feel each steam of water where it pricked his skin. In order to keep himself from thinking, Dick began to count the number of feeds from each showerhead. Seven minutes later, the heat began to penetrate his muscles and he could feel his body begin to unlock. He moved to massage each muscle group, starting with his arms. When his thumb brushed across his right collarbone, he paid the habitual action no mind until it was met with soft skin. He pressed his thumb into bone until it throbbed in tune with his pulse. Then, pivoting his wrist to drag it across the expanse of his shoulder twice, his movement was only restricted by the natural friction of healthy flesh moving against flesh.
Dick had to look.
Contorting his body, Dick moved his hand slowly away from his collarbone. The water ran smoothly down the shoulder instead of in the little rivers typically formed around his scar. Despite the steam, Dick shivered, a jolt of ice traveling down his spine. There had never been a flu-induced, amateurish approach on a storm filled night; never been the Joker and a bullet; never been a foot tangled in the line between life and death; never been the argument. A child! I’ll say I’ve been wounded -- plenty of times, but never this deep. He had never stopped being Robin.
True, this Robin was younger than Dick had been when he was fired, and everyone had called him Robin, and he knew he was Robin, but still, he was Robin.
The water began to sting enough to encourage him to look again at the shoulder. His thumbnail had dug a small hole into his skin where a bullet scar should have been, and the cut was becoming irritated. The red hand print stood out on his pale skin and Dick could tell the finger marks would soon bruise.
With the water shut off, Dick could see the rest of his torso better. His body had been a record of his life, a sort of coded Braille scroll only he could translate completely. The scars could go back as far as his circus day. He first searched for the twin scars on his knees from when he was five. He had gotten them while traveling with his father’s kumpania during the months the circus was closed. This Robin’s set of scars was more visible than his own, less time having passed for this body. He cataloged a few missing scars from his early Robin years and noticed some unknown scars, but he grounded himself in that set of knee scars.
The lines on both his knees were straight and sure. Dick vaguely remembered finding the sharp rock after the townies had come to the camp one night. The cuts had been surprisingly deep and precise for a child’s hand, and the lines of blood had reached his feet by the time his father had found him. Neither of his parents understood how he had been trying to separate his father’s blood from his mother’s, to see if it somehow flowed differently as the townies had suggested. His mother had held him while his father patches his knees and lectured him. “Richard, one day you will come to understand your heritage. From me you know a sense of others, of making a family out of more than blood. From your mother you know a sense of self, of making limitless dreams possible with nothing but your will. You are more complete than either of us by ourselves.” From that day, without even understanding all of his father’s words, he had bled his heritage into every action.
Dick turned off the memory when he turned the shower back on, the cold water making him jump. He scrubbed his body and hair clean as quickly as he could move his hands, snapped the water off again, and managed to reach a towel to pat himself dry. It occurred to him then that he lacked clean clothes to change into, so with a sigh and a sniff test, he stepped back into the discarded sweatpants. After a little more searching, Dick cleaned and covered the small hole his fingernail had made, then retrieved his shirt. Not feeling up to wrestling with it again, Dick laid it across his shoulder, carefully arranging it to hide the growing bruise. Against his better judgment, he drew the towel across the mirror in a single swipe so he could see to apply the mask. The glue job was haphazard at best and would never have held on the streets, but would manage for the tower.
.:N:.