Scars

Author's Note: The idea for this story is entirely ReadingRider's, who was kind enough to suggest it to me.

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There are so many ways to tell time, to mark it's passing. Clocks, calendars, the growth of trees, the growth of children, diplomas hanging on a wall, marriage and death notices in a newspaper; they all remind us that years slip by; for better or worse they remind us of passages, remind us of our mortality.

I find that generally we tend to apply these changes to ourselves—we are, after all, whom we're most concerned with unless we strive for canonization, are we not? Occasionally though, someone else enters our lives with enough force, enough import to occasionally take first place in line. Such was the case...

When Dick first came to live with Master Bruce and myself at the Manor he was barely nine years old, a frightened, traumatized and angry child with no idea of how to cope with the terrible changes in his life and the nightmare of watching his parents die. The scars were so deep I sometimes despaired of their ever healing but somehow they did, or seemed to, at any rate. With long hours of effort, the boy learned how to channel his anger and reveled in making a real difference in people's lives—criminals captured and victims finding justice through his efforts.

Soon enough his real personality broke through, that light, happy young man who brought desperately needed brightness to the mausoleum the Manor had, without our noticing, slowly become. The scars remained, though; how could they not? But he learned to live with them and move on with his life and his work.

My pride in him remains boundless. He amazed me when he was ten, twelve, fifteen, twenty as he astounds me now. He is a singular young man and my heart fairly bursts when I see him walk through the door. When I think of him, at least a dozen times in a normal day, the picture I carry is one of smiles, laughter, teasing, bad jokes and warmth.

He's family in every sense of the word—every sense which matters.

Responding to a summons from Bruce, he walked in without warning, as is his wont, two weeks ago. It was getting late when he interrupted my evening cup of Earl Grey. I hid my smile when at his flaunting the rules, leaving his current motorcycle in the garage and using the kitchen door instead of the front door, leather jacket and helmet casually tossed on the granite workspace. My years of effort to instill in him the niceties having fallen short in yet another area.

Tired, hungry and worried about whatever case it was that had his attention for the moment, I insisted that he pursue the problem in the morning after a hot shower and at least seven hours of solid rest. He was, I suspect, beyond an argument and so agreed after I assured him food would be waiting when he was warm and clean.

Remembering that I had neglected to restock the linen closet in his old suite, I braved the steam and went in to deliver fresh towels, placing them on the bathroom counter and making sure that at least one would be warm for him when he emerged.

That's when I saw—really saw—them for myself. Of course I'd seen them, or some of them before and had tended more than my share over the years but the accumulation, the price he's paid over the years, somehow I'd managed to put that too firmly from my mind. I fear that's it a truism that we are never so blind as when we choose not to see.

I shall live with that shame, as there's nothing for it now; it's far too late to rue past bills paid in pain and blood.

Never one to be concerned with false modesty, he opened the glass shower door and stepped out, kind enough to give me a small smile as he did so then took the bath sheet I handed him, barely warm from the rack. He even thanked me, bless his heart.

He saw me staring at his chest and back—well muscled and as sculpted as always.

“What?”

He truly didn't know and I had no idea how to ask but, stupidly, blundered on. “Do they hurt?”

He looked a question at me, not understanding.

“Your scars, do they still hurt?”

“Oh, uh...” He shrugged, another appalling habit. “No, not once they've healed.”

There were so many, back and front and I remembered most of them; that long jagged one across his abdomen caused by an explosive thrown by Two-face at then thirteen year old Robin. The series of scratches along his spine, as though he'd been attacked by a wild animal; Catwoman of course when he was about fifteen. Other, smaller marks, too many to mention and, of course, the healed bullet wound through his left shoulder, the one which could have so easily cost him his life and, in a sense, led to the end of the first Robin and the birth of Nightwing—and came close to bringing about the death of our family with the depth and length of the estrangement that tragic episode caused.

I suppose that he saw my thoughts as they carelessly played across my usually schooled face. I can't help it, where Richard is concerned I fear that my emotions tend to run closer to the surface than I prefer and he knows me so very well.

“Hey, Alf (that appalling nickname I would only accept from him, as he well knows), they're not that bad. They really aren't.” He smiled suddenly, that wonderful smile, “Badges of honor, right? I earned them, dammit.” He flexed his back in parody of a body builder's pose, causing the heat reddened marks stand out in relief against his tanned skin.

He always tries to make light of his own troubles, tries to make others feel at ease when he can.

It wasn't that I hadn't known they were there or even that I'd never seen them before; I had. I'd been the one who'd dressed them, tended them and made sure that they weren't worse than they actually were. It was just that...

It was just that they were so, so—they were, there were so many and so many of them were so serious. I suppose it's something along the lines of not noticing that the living room needs painting until five minutes before the big party and suddenly all you can see are the cracks and dirt marks.

Dick's back and chest, down as far as the towel around his waist were a mass of criss-crossed scars from his endless fights and injuries over the past decade or more. Countless, some faded to almost nothing and others which likely still ached from time to time. Scars from knives, bullets, whips and heaven knew what all—car crashes, falls, jagged glass; they were all well represented on the frightening canvas before me. I cringe to wonder how he explains them to his young ladies.

Forgetting myself, allowing my stare to go on too long he brought me back to myself.

“What is it?”

“Forgive me, let's get you dry and in some clean clothes.”

“They don't hurt, I'm fine.” He paused, waiting for me to catch up, his voice and face gentle. “The scars, they don't hurt anymore. I'm fine.”

“Of course you are.”

He gave me a look I don't think I'd ever seen from him, one of patience, of a teacher regarding a somewhat backward student. “I accepted the tradeoff when I was ten; do this and sometimes I'd get hurt. It's part of the deal and I went into this knowing it.”

At that moment I realized something. “You never complained, no matter how seriously you were hurt.” I'd known this, of course, I'd simply chosen not to think about it, about a young boy baring horrible injuries without a whimper.

“No pain, no gain, right?” He smiled when he said it, not quite covering that he was admitting a truth about his beliefs and dedication.

“So it would seem.” He smiled again, ready to end an awkward topic and change the subject by getting dressed. “Food in the kitchen when you're ready.”

“Thanks, I'll be down in a minute.” I left him but his voice stopped me at the door. “It really is okay—you believe that, right?”

“As much as it pains me, yes, I believe you. I only wish there weren't quite so many.” And that there might be no more, unlikely as that might be. Yet another small smile barely touching his mouth in answer as he pulled fresh jeans and whatnot from the bureau; his ability to remain so cheerful will never cease to amaze me.

He glanced at the old framed and fading photo of his parents in their bright circus costumes. “The only one that which still hurts is the one that keeps me doing this, but you know that, too, don't you?”

Yes, I knew. Much as he would never belabor it, the one scar that could never completely heal was the invisible one he'd carried for almost fifteen years.

10/20/09
 

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