Chapter Text
Focus: part of my partners ‘verse
He had to focus. That’s what Bruce said. When the thoughts get overwhelming, when the pain is too much, when you’re lost in the memories you can’t escape, the things you can’t control, try to focus, focus on the here and now, focus on the things you can control.
Trouble was, Dick had never really understood the concept of control. Control was never something he had wanted. Not something he needed. He didn’t want to control things, and as childish and selfish as it was, he wanted nothing more than to never have to control anything. To have someone else there to be in control. To simply fly free and know there would be hands to catch him.
But… he had to focus on something.
Some part of him knew that following Bruce’s advice on this sort of thing probably wasn’t the best idea. Bruce was such a mess. Such a painful, broken mess. And that was so beyond scary. Because Bruce’s parents had died forever ago, and he was still like this. How could Dick hope to ever be happy, be himself, again?
Somewhere along the line, Dick decided he could focus on Bruce. On Bruce’s pain and loneliness and need, instead of his own. Dick couldn’t control Bruce any more than Bruce could control Dick (no matter how hard he tried) but Dick could help him. Dick could be there for him and try to make him smile sometimes, and remind him he was never, ever alone. Not with Dick at his partner.
That helped. That helped a lot, to have that focus. Especially after they became Batman and Robin. Batman would attack, and Dick would jump in with his creepy, ventriloquist’s cackle, that wasn’t quite a real laugh, and they would fight the bad guys, helping people. Together.
And it wasn’t until long afterwards, when fake laughs were replaced by real ones, and grappling had become flying, and fighting had become dancing, that he realized: He had gotten what he wanted. Because every night he could fly free, without worrying about control, because he knew that Batman’s hands would be there to catch him.
The whole time he had been focussing on Bruce, making jokes, giving hugs, protecting his back, Bruce had been focusing on him, with a hand on his shoulder, and a small, small, approving smile, being there, with him and for him.
Trivial:
Damian didn’t understand why Grayson was wasting so much time on this.
“Really,” he said, “I would not have told you if I knew you would insist upon celebrating. I am sure Batman has much more important things to spend his time on than this trivial matter.”
“Dami,” Grayson said, and it was almost startling, how his expression went from exuberant to serious in a split second, “Your birthday is hardly “trivial”. It marks the day you came into this world, which makes it important, because you are important. Far more important than anything else I could be doing today.”
“Tt. I thought you were trying to teach me to be less “full of myself,’” Damian said, trying (and failing spectacularly) to ignore the foreign, warm, pleasant feeling Grayson’s words filled him with.
Torture:
You can do this, he told himself, firmly. You’re Dick Grayson, you’re Robin. There’s only thirty more minutes left. You can do this.
He tried to focus on the passage in front of him and the multiple choice questions he was supposed to answer. Tried not to think about flying or the fact that he had been stuck here, sitting, reading incredibly boring paragraphs all morning.
He hated standardized tests.