Subject: [OTL]: Father's Son
Date: Tue, 8 Dec 1998 20:50:49 +1100
From: "Amanda Sichter" <wolf@ozdocs.net.au>


Told you I was feeling creative. This is very short, but I'm rather proud
of it. Yes, I finally managed to come up with a Nightwing story without
doing a slavering fangirl piece!

This is very short.

Disclaimer: The people belong to DC - I'm just borrowing them for a very
short time and making no money whatsoever.

Father's Son

Once I was called Robin.

Now I am Nightwing.

They tell me, those who know me, that I am my father's son. By that they
mean Bruce Wayne's boy - the young Bat, the hero, the masked vigilante.

I love Bruce Wayne.

But he is not my father.

I remember my father.

I remember his laugh. It filled the Big Top from end to end, a laugh that
caught others up in its joy, that rang across my whole world, that made me
giggle and shout with glee and reach for him, my whole body wriggling in
excitement to be with daddy, my daddy.

I remember his strong hands, how they held mine tight when he took me out
on the trapeze the first time, how they would be waiting when I had dared
to let go the trapeze, how I would reach out, blind faith that he would be
there, and how every time they were, huge hands that engulfed mine and made
me safe.

I remember his arms, his strong arms that were always there to catch me
when I needed to be caught. I remember the first time he put me on the
gymnastics bar, how he held me tight in his arms as he showed me how to
move around the bar. I remember the first time I fell from the bar, when my
grip slipped and I plummeted towards the ground and before I had time to
scream I was wrapped in his strong arms and always safe. I was never afraid
again because I knew his arms would always be there to catch me.

I remember how sturdy his legs were, how he could carry me on his back and
run for miles when I wanted him to be a steam-train, how he could hold my
whole family on his shoulders as we reached into the sky, how his legs
would be as strong as tree-trunks, firm and steady and straight as he held
us all in his hands.

I remember his voice as he read my lessons to me, as he showed me how the
letters ran together and made words that made sentences that made books
that made worlds of wonder and delight, where I could travel into space or
fly like the wind or meet the Cat in the Hat.

I remember how much he hated my maths homework. I remember the way he used
to get mom to help me with that - and how, if I wanted to tease him, I
would ask him to help me with algebra. I remember how his forehead would
knot up tight and he would be forced to eventually say, 'Ask your mother.'

I remember his love - it filled my world, it filled my family, memories of
golden days when we were together and I knew how much my daddy loved my
mommy and me and how the sun shone and we knew the open road and the
adulation of the crowd and the whole world shone with that love.

I remember every time he told me he loved me. I remember the first time he
told me he was proud of me. I remember him and honour him and love him.

I remember his scream when the ropes gave way and how he reached, reached
out to my mother, falling and dying and trying even then to hold her, to
catch her in his big strong hands and save her. I remember how he looked on
the ground, crumpled and broken, before the adults closed around me and
took me away from my father forever.

I love Bruce Wayne. He gave me wings.

But my father had already taught me how to fly.

I once was Robin.

Now I am Nightwing.

But I am always Dick Grayson, John Grayson's little boy.

I am my father's son.

Which father?

Both of them.

The End

Amanda
wolf@ozdocs.net.au

'All that glitters is a high refractive index'