movin and groovin

“You have to roll into it, Cass,” he says, for practically the hundredth time. 

She grits her teeth and replies, “I’m trying. It’s a metal circle.”

“And you’re treating it like a weapon to use in a fight,” Dick says, loping beside her with an exasperated sort of grin, one that settles comfortably in the years of his hard-earned patience. He’s only wearing a simple t-shirt and joggers, which she cannot understand for the life of her. Cass is bundled up in two layers with socks and has thick leg warmers covering her knees—or more importantly, the backs of her knees. (She can still somehow feel watercolor bruises painting on that tender skin.)

She taps out, hooking her legs over the bottom of the lyra before flipping out. Moving slightly to the side, she sinks onto the plush mat on the floor of Dick’s studio, arms stretched back and basking in the low sunlight coming from the large windows. Or possibly just basking in the air conditioning.

Dick slips down beside her and hands her a bottle of water, which she sips gratefully. “I’d say you were close that time, but…” Cass glares at him and he chuckles, hands up in mock-surrender. “All right, all right. But you want a word of advice?”

He says this casually, throwing out the words as if he doesn’t expect his siblings to take him up on the offer. Like he doesn’t realize his life is a masterclass in performance, the sort of thing a symphony orchestra proudly tunes before a miraculous, miraculous song. Like the years of his experience he’s so laboriously built doesn’t make the rest of them froth at the mouth, beg with open palms for Dick to plant his knowledge in their grasp, as much as they may deny it. Hungry dogs, the lot of them, gazing up at Dick’s flawed perfection. The brilliant bastard. Fucking prince amongst men. 

As if Cass wouldn’t want his advice.

“Sure,” she says.

“You shouldn’t be fighting the lyra every second to be exactly where you want it to be,” Dick remarks. “Not to be a bit obvious, but—I mean it’s a metal hoop suspended from the ceiling. It’s gonna spin. It’s gonna move. Your balance is perfect, better than mine, but you have to carry that momentum through. You can’t just stay still. You have to flow with it.”

In half confusion and half accusation, Cass tells him, “You do not ‘flow with it.’ I see you. You plan every move.”

At that, Dick snorts. “Yeah, okay. Every part of me is in control when I’m on the lyra, sure. But I’m not—well, I plan the things I can’t plan.”

Her brother has said many nonsensical things in the years she’s known him, but this one completely boggles her brain. She makes sure her face conveys as such to him.

“The hoop’s gonna spin, no matter what, right? But I can control how fast it’ll move with how I move, and can even set the spin myself if I touch down,” Dick explains, fingers gesturing in the air. She can see he’s buffed his calluses recently. “You’re in the air, so of course the places where you’re keeping in contact with the hoop are gonna feel pressure. But you move with the hoop so that you’re not just balancing against one spot for too long and bruising yourself. You should roll along the curve of the hoop however fast or slow you need to land exactly where you want to be for the next part. Does that make sense?”

Not…completely. Cass is someone who needs to do something to fully understand it, needs to get up and feel the lyra in the way Dick is talking about, let it kiss her bones and ripple out to the tips of her fingers. But what she does have down for memory, imprinted into the backs of her eyelids and carved into the grooves of her brain, are fights.

And when Dick fights, he’s well-trained and disciplined. Every move is calculated, but within those calculations are measures of uncertainty. Like a window fogged with potential or a drop of ocean water straining to reach the topmost peak of a jetty. Dick’s not averse to improvisation, builds it into the many layers of his plans. It’s what makes his combat style the most infallible of all of them, in the long run.

“You fight like jazz,” Cass tells him.

And he throws his head back and laughs, like he knows exactly what she means. He probably does.  “Thanks Cass,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Now c’mon. Let’s try again. Remember: roll with it.”

He is indeed dead inside. I saw The Batman for the 4th time last Tuesday because I have a problem, but it’s all cool.

Side note: We stan Romani!Dick in this house. I imagine his mother being Romani, while his father being of European decent or something like that.

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The only thing more certain than Master Bruce's tendency towards autocracy is Master Dick's tendency towards one-man mutiny. - Alfred Pennyworth in Gotham Knights #1

That's Nightwing. No wasted time on "What do you think it is, what do you suppose they're after?" Just efficient and pragmatic. - Clark Kent in Action Comics #841

It's different with him out here. I think about when he was younger. When I was younger. It was a different time. Simpler. And... I miss it. I miss those days. For that... it's hard to be around him. - Bruce Wayne in Batman #636

Nightwing. He is the best. The only one I could have picked to lead you. He will honor you. He will make you champions. - Bruce Wayne in JLA #69

Oh, hi. How did you fin—what am I talking about? You're Nightwing. You could find a whale in a haystack—or something like that! - Garfield Logan in The New Teen Titans Vol. 2 #48

Months ago, Nightwing hacked the override code for the Justice League teleporter. I hacked it from him. Bruce never changed it. I think he liked that Dick had done that. - Tim Drake in Robin #182

Robin Watching: 1277/∞

Dick Grayson as Batman (Unmasked)

Image Source

and

Achilles’ “If I hold out here and I lay siege to Troy, / my journey home is gone, but my glory never dies. / If I voyage back to the fatherland I love, / my pride, my glory dies.”