Characters: Tim, Dick.
Prompt: #29, Repression
Word Count: About two hundred.
Disclaimer: Don't own.
They are talking about old childhood memories. Old ones, as in 'before Bruce.'
It's the Bats' equivalent of metaphorical minefield jogging (as opposed to the actual minefield near-jogging they have been trained on). But Dick treats pain as he treats the ground - something he doesn't really believe in, no matter how many times he has... well, hit the ground is not an inappropriate metaphor.
Dick is talking now about the night his parents died. He doesn't say "the night I met Bruce," and there is an acknowledgment there.
Tim nods, listening. He remembers everything about that night, too. The screams from the crowd, the falling trajectories, Dick's outstretched arm.
He also remembers, with clinical precision, everything about his own father's death. Body position. Forensics. The break-in sequence. Tim had copied Batman's detailed files and committed them to memory.
You never knew when that information could come useful.
Dick is talking now about happier memories. His mother washing his hair. His father, teaching him the old tongue - and to curse in it, but only when his mother wasn't around. Small intimacies and shared rituals; they had been the fabric of his life, once.
Tim keeps nodding. He was loved, too, and held. He shared silly toys with his father and refused to sleep until his mother read him an story.
He doesn't recall, but it's a reasonable assumption, right?