milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Dick wasn't expecting to see the bar.

Ever again, really. He had become used to the bar being somewhere he could access through tents and doors in the circus. It was a new part of his world, sure, but it was a part of it.

Then his world collapsed in front of him and everything changed and suddenly he found himself living in an orphanage in Gotham City run by nuns.

He's had to deal with that new, horrible world, and he hates everything about it. Hates how it's not the circus, but at the same time, he's sort of pleased that he doesn't have to be at the circus, to see Mister Haly or the animals or any of his friends, and not see his parents. This new world is horrible, but because it's missing everything, it's not missing them specifically.

That's what he'd think if he was capable of coherent thought on the subject right now.

As it is, Dick couldn't explain exactly why finding the bar appear on the way to his dorm feels like a betrayal.

The boy stands in the doorway, fists clenching at his side as he glares at the bar for daring to still exist, and still be bright and loud and friendly when everything on the other side of the door is broken.

He glares for one second,
two seconds,
three seconds...

And then he vanishes into the rafters.

[OOC: If you can find him, completely open! But be open to very short threads, if he doesn't want to talk. DCU!Dick.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The flipping at least doesn't bother him. He lands on his feet on the other side and is already ready to go again by the time his second foot touches the floor.

He just scowls - at himself as much as her - and punches again.

This time it is better.

"Like that," she acknowledges, sounding pleased. "Remember it."

Being an acrobat is very useful.

(So, in this case, is being a punching bag. Hooray!)

Edited 2013-05-17 15:51 (UTC)

Scowling, Dick nods. He will remember.

He will remember and he will get better.

And he punches her again, trying to focus on his technique.

(But it's hard to focus. Hard to think of anything except that fall.)

He punches again.

And again.

And tries.

"Now," X says eventually, not even breathing hard.

Or wincing.

"Your other hand. The same motion."

It's particularly unsatisfying that he can't make her wince.

So he switches hands and tries to go harder.

No, he tries to get the motion right.

(He's nearly ambidextrous. It works, for this.)

But the more he punches, and the less reaction he gets, the more frustrated he becomes.

X cannot miss his frustration. In addition to his body language, his own biochemistry and biological responses mean it's written in ten-foot-tall neon letters in the air.

Figuratively.

But she does not respond to it.

Maybe she does not know how.

Or maybe this is how she, too, copes. (She remembers.)

He keeps going. One hand, then the other, taking care each time to get the technique the way she told him. One, then the other.

When she doesn't respond, he keeps going.

When his eyes finally start filing up with tears again, he keeps going. Because he doesn't need to see for this.

X's nostrils flare a little as she scents the air, but at first she says nothing.

Sometimes there is nothing to say.

But as the exercise continues, and once (if) his tears wear themselves out --

Without calling a halt, X says only, "Dick."

Maybe so he knows she did not miss it.

Maybe to check if he is . . . still functionally not-okay.

He stops when she says his name, because he assumes it's calling a halt even if it isn't. But when he stops, he realizes he doesn't want attention drawn to anything

He looks down at the ground rather than at her face, and says, "yeah?"

Almost as if he doesn't know what she's talking about.

"You will want to try a kick? Now."

Since no one here has 'talking' as their primary skill.

He turns away from her, showing her his back so she can't see his face.

(And daring her to mention it.)

Angrily sticking his fingers in his eyes he takes a couple of seconds to dry them out, and turns back.

"Yes."

X does not respond to dares, implicit or explicit.

(Her own methods of coping mean she is a woman in an entirely glass house. Or maybe no house at all.)

"Okay."

She shifts her own position, settling into a stance and holding.

"This is where to begin. It will be different. Later. When there is more to integrate."

Edited 2013-05-17 17:06 (UTC)

Dick gives her a confused look, just for a second, when he realizes she hasn't mentioned anything at all. Has she not noticed?

That doesn't stop him being grateful she hasn't noticed. He just slips into an exact copy of her stance.

Well, sort of exact. His feet flat refuse to be anything other than light on the ground. If she was going for a stable base, it's like watching an airbender get ready to earthbend.

Given that Dick does not have terrible balance, X is okay with his light feet.

It means she does not have to adapt her own style much for this at all.

She adjusts her own positioning to better reflect Dick's, choosing quickly between a snap kick and a roundhouse.

Considering a roundhouse gives more power and more movement --

Today that seems exactly like the thing to do.

(This is X noticing.)

Dick watches carefully.

And copies it, almost exactly, taking advantage of his excellent balance and his ease of movement.

It's better, really, because he can get more force into a kick.

"Good," X says, after huffing out a slightly deeper breath than previously.

"You can do the same with your other leg?"

"Yes," says Dick, right before he proves it.

"Very good," X says, because it is true.

Then --

"Again."

He might get tired of hearing that. Eventually.

He might. Eventually.

But not from X, at least not for a while.

Because he's going to keep kicking her until he can't do it anymore. Because right now it's the only thing he can do.

X lets him.

Because if talking is off the table right now, and it seems to be, this is the only thing she can do.

Or it is the only thing that makes sense to her, anyway.

There comes a point, when even a boy of Dick's stamina and agility gets tired, and it's sooner than it should be, like he's been expending his energy somewhere else, rather than physical activity.

After a short while kicking X to the best of his activity, he stops, realizing he can't do it anymore.

And he looks up at her, helpless. Without this, what does he have to do with himself.

Suddenly he turns his back on her and runs towards the forest. He doesn't want her to see him cry.

X gives him a thirty second head start, then follows.

Quietly.

She knows he does not want to be seen.

But --

Being alone can make things worse.

She remembers that very well.

He's sitting up in a tree a short distance from the edge of the forest, huddled among the branches like a large, weepy eagle.

He doesn't want to be alone, really.

But he doesn't want her.

(He wants his Mom.)

X does not pause to study him, she just leaps up into the tree and drops down next to him.

Carefully.

She doesn't say anything, just reaches out -- twice as carefully as she approached -- and rests her hand on his shoulder.

If he will let her.

Not gonna cry. Not gonna cry. Not gonna cry.

Dick shies away for a fraction of a second as the hand approaches. Then he stops, and makes himself lean towards her, just slightly.