This piece goes out to Syl for two reasons:- 1) She beta-read this for me even though she was *extremely* busy (thank you Syl! MMWA!), put up with my endless questions and absolutely zip knowledge on Nightwing, and was very nice about it the whole time. She didn't even yell at me either. Miraculous thing, that. . . ;) 2) When my e-mail program went nasty on me and ate up various messages, she so graciously sent me her stories whenever I meekly asked for them, even though it happened a lot of times and it was a lot of stories (and I mean A LOT. *shudder*). I told her I'd make it up to her by dedicating a Nightwing fic to her should I ever write one, and it was only a joke at the time. But you know how people say guilt gnaws at you? That's a lie. It nibbles oh so demurely at your ear, tasting the flesh before getting to the nice juicy blood. . . okay, stop it, Maelie, shut up. (*ahem*) So, as a thank-you gift, this fic is dedicated to her.

This also goes out to JB McDonald, for whom a dedication is long overdue. She's made my laugh more times than I can imagine, and made me depressed with her stories for just as much too (uh, that was a compliment, JB. Really. Please put that big wet fish down. . .). I've been trying to find a fic that's good enough to dedicate to her, but I don't think I've gotten it yet. Dang. I'll just have to try again next time (oh the horror). . .

Okay, definitely shutting up now. :)

Continuity? Oh foosh, must there be one? ;) Um, okay. . . Basically this would occur during one of the late-night training sessions that Nightwing (Dick Grayson) gave Robin (Tim Drake) in Bludhaven during the early days.

Anything right here is due to Syl. Anything wrong here is due to me. Some of the sentences and ideas here are Syl's, too, so she has full copyright of them, naturally. Feedback would be a yummy scrumptious thing.

Advice by Maelstrom

Hey, Tim. How's it hanging?

. . . You know, I've seen criminals who look happier than you do. And that was when I was kicking them in an extremely tender area.

Trouble at home?

'Kay, 'kay, I'm not gonna pry. At least not yet.

Well, I guess it's show-the-rookie-the-ropes time, huh? Train the new Robin for the job. Ready for swing-time, bud?

Tim?

Are you coming?

. . . Well, okay. We could do that. Sit down and talk. Training could always wait.

What's on your mind?

No, I'm not laughing at you. Swear to God I'm not. It's just that. . . well, you're the one who swooped in out of nowhere to save mine and the big guy's butts when Two-Face had us cornered. Asking whether you have what it takes to be Robin is kinda. . . well. . . late, isn't it? And the answer's pretty obvious.

Yeah, you have what it takes.

C'mon, look at you. You've got a pretty good build. Confident too. And you've *definitely* got the Robin thing going for you. Ever notice how all the Robins tend to have the exact same appearance? Black hair, blue eyes. . . Next thing you know, there'll be a whole buncha clones of us out there, patrolling the streets.

Clones of *you* out there, I mean. I think I'm a little too big now to qualify.

Any words of advice for you?

Hmm, let's see. . . okay, first off? No puns. Really. Trust me on this, when you're on the job and in costume, no matter how *really* good the line is. . . don't say it. Trust me, you'll end up with a very cheesy reputation in no time. Take it from someone who knows.

Any more?

. . . Well, never turn your back on an enemy. Or never get caught in a position where an enemy can just turn up on your doorstep with a big grin on his face. I had a. . . friend who did that once, and she. . .

Oh. You know her. Oh yeah, right, right. I keep forgetting you're not as new as I think.

. . . I really can't think of anymore advice.

Except. . .

Well, the big guy? Don't let him fool you. He might be stiff and stern with a grimace that seems to be carved in stone, but inside he's got a laugh like a little kid. I've heard it only a few times in my life, but in every one of those times it was wonderful, pure music to my ears. As cliché as the term may sound.

Yeah, he's a great guy, isn't he?

. . . Why I left Gotham?

You should know, shouldn't you? You're a clever guy, you've figured most things out. Like our true identities, for one.

Yeah. I just. . . didn't want to be under his watch anymore, I guess. It would be like being his sidekick again when I wasn't. And being a sidekick's a really bad position to be in.

No offense to you, of course.

Seriously? . . . Well, it *is* kinda serious, I mean, I'm my own man now. I don't want to always be living in his shadow - and I mean *in* his shadow, in Gotham's shadows, Gotham that is essentially his and him. I need to have something that's mine, y' know?

Yeah, I knew you could understand.

You look like a pretty bright kid. He sure could pick 'em, couldn't he?

. . . Yeah, that *has* occurred to me. I don't know why he always has kid sidekicks either. To keep some scratch-worth's of innocence by his side, I suppose? Maybe. But. . . I mean, yeah. Like me, he suspended me for good because he didn't want me to get hurt again. He didn't want me to die.

And the next Robin did.

I don't know. It's always seemed funny to me that if he didn't want to risk any of us dying, why did he have us in the first place? Why thrust us right in the scene of battle instead of doing some behind-the-scenes work? Because we were young and fast? Because we could offer a few good lines that could lighten the mood and cheer him up? To preserve the very little faith and innocence that he has?

. . . Or so that he could regard us in the flesh and see what he was truly fighting for?

Why I don't visit him much?

Well, all he has to do is snap his fingers and say he needs me, of course, and I'll come running. . .

. . . but outside of that, no. I don't really see him outside of business now.

I've just. . . I've grown, y' know? Bludhaven's my town now. He knows that. He understands that. He knows how consuming it is to patrol a whole town by yourself, and how it can just go haywire if you take a break for one night. He understands that I'm busy. He doesn't blame me or anything, because he's not the type that would blame others. . . He usually blames himself. . .

I mean, he's a great guy. A great dad.

And besides, he has his own things to do. He has Gotham. And you.

. . . Yeah, I miss him.

I just don't know if I can face him now, y' know? Not after what'd happened. . . some of the words we said. Some of the words *I* said. I was pretty mad when I was stripped of the Robin title. It was like my identity just went *poof*, y' know? Because outside of Robin, who was I? Some geeky little private-school-going kid who's the ward of a millionaire playboy, that alone gave me a reputation I could've died from. The only thing that kept me going were the nights and occasional days as Robin.

And when that was gone, I just. . . lost it, I guess.

Even though I later understood why he had to do that, why he wasn't willing to risk my life again, it still hurt. A lot. And when he appointed a new Robin, I felt betrayed. It was like, "You're not good enough, chum. Here's a guy that can cope with danger much better than you ever will." And not only that, it was my *name.* *MY name.* Robin. My mother gave it to me, it was mine, I chose it, me! Losing the title was bad enough, but to lose it to someone *else*. . . It hurt even more.

And then when Jason died, the guilt felt terrible. Just gnawing at me, at my shoulders and in my stomach, in my lungs and over my skin. It just felt so. . . horrible.

. . . No, I don't resent you. You're an okay guy. I approve of you using the name. No, scratch that - you've *earned* the name. It kinda makes me feel proud to be succeeded by a person like you, actually.

You really have to stop looking at me like that. People are going to get weird ideas about why we always hang out together.

Besides, I've my own turf now, and I wouldn't trade that or the new me for anything in the world. I mean, I even have this cool costume, and a great codename to boot. No more colorful outfits and running around in underwear-like pants for me, thank you.

No offense to you, of course.

Hmm? Oh, right. Why I don't visit.

. . . I like the guy. Anyone who's close to him does. From afar he seems like an uncaring snob, but when you get to know him, when you *really* get to know him, then there's no way in hell you would ever trade anything for your time with him. He just inspires that sort of. . . no, I don't want to call it loyalty. It goes so much deeper than that, involves more emotions. . .

It's so hard to reach out to him sometimes. There are times when I just wish I was one of those guys who can call their dad up on the phone and just talk about nothing. But then I think again and I don't want that, I'm happy with the bond that we share, the words that can be communicated so effectively just through a gaze, through a pause. Let me tell you, we've shared our ups and downs and we may not be able to talk to each other as smoothly as we would want to. . . but I know he loves me. How many men can truly say that, that they *know* their dad loves them? I know it and I can feel it in my blood.

And I love him too.

Whoops, I think I'd better go now. Bludhaven really gets edgy at this time of night. Guess we'll have to postpone the training stuff to tomorrow night, huh? Same time and place?

'Kay. Give Alfred a wave for me, tell him I still miss his milk and cookies. And tell Babs she looks fabulous. Sneak her a wink for me if you can, I love the look on her face whenever she sees that.

And. . .

Tell him. . . tell him I said hi.

Yeah, that's it.

That's my cue now. See ya. Take care of yourself, you hear?

And take care of him.

=End=

Maelstrom :)

Dance in Fields of Gold ~