TITLE: Crack of sunlight, crack in the mirror
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
CATEGORY: AU, Angst
CHARACTERS: Dick
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 2,478
SUMMARY: Every one of Dick's certainties has gone. Can Mary rebuild his life, or is there nothing left to salvage?
NOTES: As I was writing 'Revenge is a kiss', I fell in love with the universe I'd created. Months later, after my technical writing retirement, ladybugkay says she wants more. I'm a sucker for flattery.
Title from 'I'm Not Dead' by Pink, some inspiration from 'Crazy' by Gnarls Barkley
It was almost dawn as he crept into the basement, trying to breathe like an assassin. The faint laughter echoing around him told him he was failing.
He couldn't grasp at any of his fleeing sanity, his illusions of the world, anything to just hold onto with all his might, to help him know that he was still Dick Grayson, still alive, still human. Except he wasn't sure what any of those things meant anymore, and Bruce had destroyed his life again.
No. Not again.
Had he? Oh. Right. He didn't know.
If he were thinking like he had been trained – by whom again? Was this Batman or Deathstroke? Bruce or Slade? Detective or murderer? – he would make a list of what was certain and what was not, and which things must become certain before reality could reassert itself and just let him pause for breath.
He wasn't even sure he was thinking at all. He'd left Mary's clothes in the Cave. He'd left Bruce…no, he couldn't think about that, not safe. The basement was covered in Mary's work, in her painstaking research and efforts, and it was easy to slip back, to walk with the tilt in his hips up to the mirror, to imagine longer hair and curves. Mary was still whole. Mary could think.
The dressing table was a mess of bottles and compacts, loose items rolling as she reached across its surface and retrieved a lipstick, smirking. This was how she'd make a list, things that needed to be done, needed to be sorted.
She scrawled an 'S' in the top left, then stared at it for a moment. S is for Superman- betrayed, left, abandoned, how could he, my hero- but no, no, that was unknown, so she quickly added 'ure', then 'Uncertain', and placed Superman under the latter.
Next came Bruce – uncertain. Alfred? Uncertain. Slade…oh, the one person she'd been certain of for so long, but now, how could she know? How would she ever know again? Uncertain.
So, the list ran on, until she was crouched at the bottom of the mirror, unbidden tears caressing her cheeks, as she finally ran out of both space and names. She cast a hesitant glance at 'Sure' – nothing. Not one person could she trust. Except Mary. Mary was all she had left.
She had to become certain again. She had to take each of these names and make them concrete in her head, whether they were on her side, whether they were traitors or…if she had been lied to.
Working up was best, she thought, delaying the pain was best. It was easier to be sure of the small things. Commissioner Gordon – he was an upright man, a good citizen. He had never been blamed for Dick's disappearance, he had led the police search and he had placed that statue of Robin in the park.
"Out
of guilt?"
Mary screamed until Slade's voice faded from her mind and then she took in a breath, letting it out slowly. Better. His words could not be trusted, not while he remained uncertain. She would have to make her own judgements – and she was sure of Jim Gordon.
Wiping his name off the mirror, she calmly picked up her notebook and found a blank page. Jim Gordon headed her list and she smiled down at him. A certainty.
Next came Tim Drake. She did not know much about him, except that he formed part of Bruce's inner circle. He held the title 'Nightwing', part of a Kryptonian legend that Superman had seen fit to bestow upon him. She suppressed the stab of jealousy that rose within her and sought out the information she had gathered. He was on public record as a Robin seeker, had a website dedicated to The Flying Graysons and their tragic deaths, and he had not been around, before, to betray.
And he was Batwoman's sidekick. Barbara Gordon – her name
stirred up memories, but she wrestled them away. There wasn't enough time to
become caught up in nostalgia – that had already led her too far astray. She
could have been part of the plot to betray him, but she had not been there at
the time – away, in
She added the two names to the list. They were reassuringly solid and she clung to that little scrap of sanity, but did not let go of Mary, her comforting shield from the world.
Then, there were the Titans. They had grown up now, grown
apart, taken on mantles they had sworn to shun with every fibre of their being.
Red Arrow was
She did not know them now, but perhaps they would listen to her. Perhaps. She was an assassin now – the pain in her chest flared, but she forced it down. She had been angry. It was no excuse, she knew, but it had seemed so simple at the time. Anger had driven her to kill again and again. Could she face her friends from that time of innocence, before all that blood had smeared across her hands?
Wally would turn her in, out of a sense of upright duty.
She decided that if Tim Drake were on the list, than they would have to be also. Perhaps she needed a new list. She took a larger piece of paper from her folder, ignoring the contracts lying pristine against the leather edge. Turning it on its side, she drew five columns and headed each one: Certain, Possible, Improbable, Traitor, No evidence.
It was a detective's chart and she knew it, but she forced that thought away. This was all her training now, no one else's. It was all she had to keep her brain moving and keep away the past.
Certain – Jim Gordon, Barbara Gordon.
Possible – Tim Drake, Roy Harper, Wally West.
Now there were only four names remaining on the list, the most painful names of all, the ones that threatened to take her under and throw out the wreck of Dick Grayson, shivering, shaking and screaming with the collapse of his mind.
She had to hold on just a little longer.
Alfred Pennyworth. He was the servant, the butler – in name only. He was the comforter, the arms that held them together, the one who knew what it was to be close to…that man, and survive. Yet, for…the plan to work, it would require Alfred. If there had been a plan.
She held her head together with her hands, stopping the fragile skull from exploding. "Stay together now, stay together…" she mumbled, pushing the pain down, pushing her tumultuous thoughts back inside where they could not hurt her. She had to think clearly. She had to hold on.
"As a theory," she muttered, "we could discuss it." She nodded to herself. This was sensible. Theories were acceptable, hypothetical situations that could be analysed without ever needing to be real or painful or true.
"First theory – there was a plan." She ignored the wrench in her gut, the one that rose every time she thought of the plan, but she had to force it back. "They devised it together. Place Robin on the warehouse roof. Hire a gang. Outnumber him, restrain him, drug him. Take him somewhere far away. Tor…torture him." No, she would not let the thoughts get to her – out, OUT! "Expect him…to die. Plan ends."
She wouldn't dwell on it, but there it existed, hovering in the air – a theory.
"Second theory – there was no plan." The null hypothesis – important to exclude in all speculation. "Robin is on the warehouse roof. He is…taken…held. Bat- they do not find him. Slade finds him. Slade heals him."
Batman was a detective. Why didn't he find him? Why didn't he come?
Dick Grayson was screaming, crying, back alone in a cell with broken legs, broken fingers, bruises, burns, and a tiny shred of hope that Bruce was coming. Bruce would find him. Bruce always found him.
Bruce did not find him. Slade came. Slade took him into his arms and loved him. Slade was the hero. He told him the truth. He told him everything.
The second theory must be true. It explained everything. It was absolute.
Mary disagreed.
Dick was forced to listen, sobs quietened, clutching his knees to his chest. There was another theory.
"Third theory – Slade…lied." Another wrench of a different kind. They were closer than lovers, her and Slade, but that meant nothing now. She had to be calm and in control. A detective. "Robin is taken prisoner. Batman doesn't rescue him…because he can't?" That didn't make sense…did it? Batman was invincible, infallible. Batman always arrived in time.
That was…untrue. They had been late, too late. They had seen people die. At first, she had believed in him, naïve and young as she was. But she had realised, later, that they didn't always make it, that sometimes people died.
Sometimes, they never solved the case at all.
The third theory was still unfinished. "Slade finds him. Slade rescues him. Slade heals him. Slade…tells him that Batman is responsible. Slade is…lying."
Why would he do that? Why would he lie? What could he possibly gain through lying?
An
assassin.
Dick cried out, shattering under his own hands, unable to stop the waves of grief and pain and anger crashing over him. How would he ever know the truth? How would he ever find himself in this mess?
One of the men he loved was lying. How would he ever tell which one?
He had been so sure of Slade's words. He had believed them so thoroughly that he had planned to kill Bruce Wayne. And what had stopped him?
Bruce's eyes.
What kind of detective was he? What kind of assassin? All his theories and his evidence and it came down to one thing – a man's eyes.
He fled to Mary and she took hold of him, shook his out and made him write:
Facts.
One at a time, she would write them down. She would write down what she was sure of. She would know then where the lies were.
1) Robin was on the warehouse roof.
She had been sent there by Batman. No…she had insisted. She wanted to be independent, to do this alone. Batman had been reluctant but he had let her go.
It could've been a ruse. A clever ruse. Still, she was certain that Robin had been on the roof. That was all she needed for now.
2) Robin had been attacked.
There had been twenty of them. They had no guns, but they had sticks and chains; she had taken out twelve by the time they pinned her, stuck the needle in her arm. They had known who she was – they had said her name.
No. They had called her Robin. They did not whose face lay beyond the mask. Only Robin.
3) Robin had been tortured.
The pen skittered across the page but she held her nerve. Torture. For three years, she had been tortured. For two and half years, she had believed Bruce was coming. One day, she'd lost hope.
Yet she had never given him up. She had never said his name. They'd asked and asked but she'd never said. She couldn't bring herself to even utter it. Batman she had called for. Bruce – never.
Something cold trickled down her spine, pooling at the base, freezing her from within. Why had they asked?
Was it part of the charade? But if she was meant to die, why would it matter what they said to her? They could've asked her for the Titans' secrets, for the secrets of the Batmobile, anything at all, but they asked her for the identity of the Batman, over and over again.
Why would they do that?
Too many questions.
4) Slade had rescued Robin.
She didn't remember much about it. She remembered the pain of being moved, the soft bed after the stone floor, the doctor who had rebroken all her bones and reset them with metal and the soft words of reassurance in the dark.
She remembered Slade explaining what had happened – how Batman had needed to get rid of Robin, how all the criminals knew it was true. She remembered refusing to believe him at first, but when he had been so tender and caring and soft, she had no choice but to trust him.
Batman had left her. Slade hadn't.
How did he know she
was there?
Slade said he had been there on "other business". He had found her by accident. He had taken pity on her and brought her home with him.
Yet there had never been another after her. She had seen victims, the families of victims, and they had never taken them into their house. Why was she so special? Why had Slade picked her?
Maybe he was paid.
Dick tried to scream but Mary held him down. They had to work through this. There had to be an end.
Then it hit her – maybe this was the end.
Maybe there were no answers. Maybe she couldn't fix this for him. Maybe it was all a terrible, twisted mixture of lies and truth and unknowns that she simply couldn't solve with her skills of detection and death.
Maybe he just had to start again.
Dick Grayson opened his eyes to the world. This basement was not where he belonged now. This was Mary's basement and she was gone, vanished from his mind like the end of an illusion, the completion of a spell.
He had been Robin to Batman and Renegade to Deathstroke; he had given away Dick to Bruce Wayne, and Mary too in the end, and some man called John to Slade. He needed to be someone new, someone with no connection to these people and these past lives.
Someone who could be whole, no detective, no assassin, not even a circus boy on a trapeze.
This place was full of disguises and deceptive tricks, for…contracts and for Mary, before she had become fully-formed in his head. He could make someone new here.
Picking things at random from the shelves and from the wardrobe, he formed himself again, an emerging moth from a rotting cocoon. He didn't need to believe in Slade or Bruce or anyone at all. He just needed to believe in this new person he was moulding, and that would have to be enough.
In the shadow of a basement, Dick Grayson died and someone
else stood in his place.