Title: In Another Land Epilogue

Author: Simon

Pairing: Dick

Rating: PG-13

Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.

Warnings: None

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

In Another Land

Epilogue Five Years Later

"Yes, Oracle out."

"Did you get that information I asked you for this morning?"

"It's printing out now. Most of it was just a cross reference and the rest was available through Interpol and Oracle."

"I'll see you back here tomorrow then." Batman left through the main entrance, Batmobile roaring loudly, as it tended to do. It always gave Dick a headache and the exhaust usually made him nauseous, but he was pretty much used to it by now.

The last couple of years—the last four years, really, had been pretty good. Maybe not that he'd hoped for, but then considering the alternative, they weren't too bad. For starters, he wasn't dead. For another thing, he was working with Bruce—Batman, whatever you wanted to call him and for another he was starting to believe that he was making a difference, indirectly though it might be.

The day Alex had come over, the day he'd started snorting coke again was probably the lowest point of his life and that was saying something when you thought about all the crap he'd been through. He'd lost school, he'd lost his girlfriend, he'd lost gymnastics and he didn't have a clue about what he was going to do next. He'd gotten pretty deeply back into the coke for a couple of months before Bruce showed up on his doorstep one night, took him out for a walk—or a limp as he thought of it—and laid some cards on the table.

He could keep doing what he was doing and probably end up dead or in jail or both.

He could go back to rehab and try to get his shit back together and go back to school on a scholarship and try to live a nice normal life.

He could get clean and get back in with Bruce and learn things that would help people make some serious inroads against some pretty serious bad guys.

Or he could get clean and just screw around and waste whatever time he had—which, from the looks of how he was going, wouldn't e too long.

Those were his choices and he didn't have much time to dither around with them. Make up his mind.

So, not being an idiot, he had opted for clean, school and teaming with Bruce/Batman when he got his act together. Hazelton had worked before for him, at least for a while, and he contacted them again. This time Bruce agreed to foot the bill as a necessary preliminary step in his training. Three months later Dick was back and newly clean again.

This time it would work.

Alex declined the offer of rehab and OD'd two years later.

Dick had contacted Stanford and requested that whatever transcripts he had accumulated be sent to Gotham U where he'd applied for entrance in the next freshman class. Sure, Bruce had called the Dean of Students to grease the transfer wheels, but it was made clear to Dick that, Bruce Wayne or no Bruce Wayne, he was on his own once he stepped into the class rooms. He'd be marked on his work, not his circle of friends.

Four years later Richard John Grayson Porter graduated Magna Cum Laude with a major in Police Science and a minor in psychology. He was accepted for postgraduate work at both Boston University and Villanova, accepted BU, but opted to defer enrollment for a year. There were still too many things he wanted to get settled before he made another major commitment.

Dick had spent those four years training with Bruce in whatever spare time he had. By the time he had his degree, he was master of most of the major forensic techniques in common practice and a few that weren't so common. He was almost Oracle's equal in reference work and he was gaining a reputation as the one to call if one of the superhero communities needed to discuss something with the Bat. Dick was approachable whereas the Bat, well...

And he became close with the Titans, as well. He and Donna had begun dating a year after he started at Gotham U and things were moving along there. They hadn't discussed marriage, although both of them had thought about it. They were starting to look for a place together and things were good between them, though he had doubts that she wouldn't get bored with him eventually. After all, he was just a normal man, he wasn't like the others. She denied it, hurt he would suggest such a thing, but he just believed what he would, kept it mostly to himself and was happy to take his happiness while it lasted. He'd also become friends with the three young men, with Garth and Wally becoming his new best friends. He and Roy still rubbed one another raw—too much in common, perhaps, but it wasn't anything they couldn't handle.

Bonnie met a man who lived in her condo building and they were married in Dick's junior year. She was happy again and Dick was happy for her. He didn't become close to the man who would nominally be his third or fourth father, but it didn't matter to any of them. They were polite and there was no friction and that was enough for everyone involved.

His gymnastics career ended with the broken leg. He had a permanent limp and while it wasn't severe, it was there. He still coached at Sergei's gym when he could and with his knowledge of the sport, his looks and his articulation, he'd been approached to do commentary for the TV sports shows but had turned the offers down. He simply wasn't interested. In fact he was dealing with a good case of depression due to the loss of the sport he'd both loved and excelled at, though he was getting help for that and starting to find other things that mattered to him and which gave him fulfillment. It still hurt to see his old teammates compete at the Olympics, though and he suspected he'd never completely come to terms with it. It was just too painful and was something else he didn't think about when he could avoid it.

His injury also ended any hope or fantasy he might have about working the rooftops with Bruce or the Titans and that was a hard pill to swallow for a long time—it still was, but it was a fact he was learning to accept, if not always as gracefully as he would have liked. It wasn't as though he had a choice, though, so he sucked it up as much as he could and tried to move on.

But when the call came in asking if he would possibly consider performing at a benefit to raise money for the retirement home Pop Haley was now living in down in Sarasota, there was no way he could turn it down.

Dick spoke to Sergei, explaining the situation, knowing there was no way on earth he'd be able to get back in full form in a six weeks, but determined to do what he could. Sergei would help get him back in shape, but he had another idea for the trap work.

Hitting Bruce's gym every day for at least two hours, he installed a pair of trapezes and convinced Bruce to help him out. Dick was astounded when the boss agreed, but then they had become, well, friends and Bruce didn't seem to have too many of those. There were even times when they'd sit around after a training session or maybe on a Sunday afternoon and just talk, exchange ideas, tell one another their thoughts and hopes. Once they even watched a movie together, something Bruce confided he'd only done maybe three times in his life with another person. It was nice and they both looked forward to those times and Dick would notice Alfred smiling whenever it happened.

One day the old man stopped Dick as he was leaving through the kitchen. "You know, I've been meaning to say something for some time now. You've made a difference in the Master. Your being here and working closely with him, I believe he needed that."

"It's not..."

"Yes, young man, it is. He isn't a very—open person, as you've no doubt found out, but he opens to you and that's quite an accomplishment. I know he's grateful to you for that, as am I. You've...helped."

Dick was surprised and unbelieving. "But I can't do the things he wanted me to when we first started talking about my working with him. My leg..."

"Yes, that was unfortunate, but it's just a leg, you see. What matters is that you stayed the course once you regained your path.

"He could have found someone else who..."

"No, in fact he couldn't. He found you; Richard and you are who he was looking for. Thank you."

"He's helped me, too."

"Of course he has. That's what you do for friends, isn't it?"

In two weeks he could turn a single with a catch again. In a month he was up to the double, a week later he had the triple and most people would have been happy with that after a five year lay off.

Dick was determined to throw the quad.

He worked the entire week he had left solid on that one move, working until his hands were bloody and his arms were exhausted.

It eluded him.

"Dick, you're not eight years old anymore, you're not even eighteen. Do the triple. You know you can make that and there's no point in getting hurt. C'mon, it's just a benefit, lighten up about it."

"I can't believe that you're telling me to quit."

"I'm not. I'm telling you that you've done enough to more than satisfy whatever you're trying to prove."

"Try it again, Bruce."

They kept working.

Bruce offered him one of the Wayne Enterprises jets down to Florida, but he preferred to take a commercial flight. Somehow arriving any other way—other than maybe driving, would have seemed pretentious. The first thing he did when he landed and rented a car was to drive over to the home to see Pop.

Dick went to the assisted living apartment Pop had been in last year to have a stranger answer the door and direct him to the information desk in another building. Asking there, he was directed to a room at the end of a long hospital smelling corridor and stood in the open door. A shrunken figure was in the bed, covered up to his waist with a sheet and the TV tuned to some talk show.

God, when did he get this old?

"Hey, Pop."

"Who's that? You have my lunch yet? I asked for it an hour ago...Dickie? Dickie, that's you? What the blue blazes are you doing here?"

"I've got a show tonight, you going to be there?"

"They told me about it, but no. I've seen circus acts before—they got you to come all the way down here from Gotham for this thing?"

"I'm coming out of retirement for this—one night only, ladies and gentlemen, performing death defying acts for your enjoyment."

"You have something in that head of yours, Dickie, I know you too well. What have you got planned?" He reached for his glass of water, Dick handed it to him.

"Come to the show tonight and see."

Pop smiled. "You always were a pushy kind of kid."

Dick knew that he was the featured performer and scheduled for the end of the two-hour show. It was the position he was used to, the headline spot. It still felt right.

He'd been in contact with the new flying troop working with Haley and they'd discussed how they'd fit his moves into their routine. They had one three hour practice that afternoon and it had gone pretty well after a short adjustment period of getting tuned into each other's rhythms. They were all good and they were all professionals. They'd do this no problem.

During the first act of the show and through the bulk of the second, Dick stayed calmly backstage, keeping his muscles warm, stretching, talking to the others. It was like old times, he was home again and he felt good. No one was scoring him, no one was judging other than himself. He was born for this, he could do this. They got the warning; five minutes.

Lined up by the entrance, they were introduced, The Flying Stanton's with their special guest, Rickard Grayson of the Flying Graysons. They all walked into the spotlights, removed their capes, and climbed the ladders up fifty feet to the tiny platforms while the music built the suspense. The Stanton's began their regular routine, back and forth, cross overs, exchanges, flips, turns. It was, to Dick's eyes, basic stuff and fairly pedestrian; moves he'd done when he was seven years old and younger. The Stanton's finished their routine, the main catcher stayed on the bar and Dick stepped up for his turn. This was why he was here.

"Ladies and Gentlemen and children of all ages, for your enjoyment Richard Grayson will now attempt the most difficult feat ever performed on the trapeze, the quadruple tuck, four complete revolutions in the air—a feat so dangerous that he is the only person in the world currently attempting this move and he will do so without the net. Silence, please." The safety net dropped to the ground on cue.

Dick took hold of the bar, jumped up and began the swings that would give him the momentum, back and forth, the drums beating out the tension. Back and forth, higher, higher, a final swing, release...the turns too fast to count the slap of hands on hands and he was hanging securely from the catcher. His feet found the platform again, arm raised. Applause.

It was just the way it used to be.

No, it was almost the way it used to be.

Back on the ground, the show over after the bows, he found the box seat Pop had watched the show from, front and center. "You did it, Dickie, just like you used to, you did it."

"I thought you'd like to see it again, Pop." They talked for just a few minutes before the nurses wheeled him out to the van to take him back to the retirement home, Dick promising he'd call and visit when he could. When the van left he walked back into the arena, headed to the dressing rooms to shower and change. He'd sleep in a nearby motel and leave in the morning.

"You made an old man happy." Bruce was standing by the door.

"You saw that? Why did you...?"

Bruce went over to where Dick was stopped. "I was curious to see if you'd be able to do it. I had a feeling you'd pull it off."

"You flew fifteen hundred miles to see a two second trick? But...?"

"You know, you've been in and out of my life since you were eight years old, I'm not a sentimental man, but I've thought of you all these years as a, sort of almost a son. Well, in an absentee father kind of way. I watched everything you went through—your parent's deaths, your adoption, your start in gymnastics, Andy's death, your difficulties with that, the drugs, and your success in your sport, your leg. You were so tough and so smart. You took everything and finally managed to beat it all. I wanted to see you graduate tonight. I, I'm proud of you."

Dick almost smiled. He'd never felt like he had a handle on Bruce before. Oh, he'd wondered about him a lot, tried to figure him out and occasionally even thought that maybe he had it, but he was always wrong. Now, maybe, he got the man. At least as well as anyone could.

"Well, all this time, I never thought of you as a father, you know; a guardian, a mentor, an intruder in my life and a meddler, but you were never a father. When you threw me out after my parents died, I figured you just couldn't be bothered, but you kept showing up—yeah I noticed all the things you did for us over the years. It wasn't hard to trace the stuff you did. You really pissed me off a lot over the years with all that. I half expected you to marry Bonnie to help her out and keep an eye on me. It was like I couldn't cough with out you knowing about it."

Bruce nodded, "So, what about now?"

Dick took his time answering. "Now I don't need a father any more and I don't think you really need a son, either. I doubt if you ever really did."

"I see." Bruce seemed disappointed.

"But we are friends. Is that alright with you? We can be friends."

He brightened. "Friends. Yes. I like us as friends."

Dick smiled, his real smile, the warm one. "Friends."

"And partners."

10/27/04

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