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Sometimes, when Dick was going through one of his “bad periods” (with no external world-saving crisis to distract himself with), he let himself hang off the side of some tall abandoned building.
He’d secure his grapple, twist the cable around his leg until he was in a footlock (just like back when his Mama and Papa let him play on the silks), and then let his arms relax as he allowed himself to be suspended completely upside down.
The beauty of the footlock was that he knew exactly what was keeping him up. He was in control; so long as his foot was flexed he would stay in the air. The only thing that would bring him down was if he pointed it.
And sometimes he wanted to.
But Dick wasn’t selfish, and in his head that would be very selfish indeed. Dick was a vigilante before all else, and if not that then he was a brother, and if not that a dutiful son, and if not that then he was (and always will be) a performer. To Dick it would be selfish to take himself away from Gotham, not when he had a skill set it so desperately needed.
So he made a deal with himself.
When he wanted to fall he would let himself hang until the blood rushed to his head. If he hung to the point where he felt so faint that he couldn’t keep himself in the footlock he simply… wouldn’t. But, and here was the big but, if anyone radioed in on the comm asking for help, didn’t matter how big or small—Arkham breakout, cat in tree, Steph needed someone to talk to—he would stop and help them. But if not, if no one needed him, then he would allow himself to let go.
If Metropolis was the city that never sleeps, then Gotham was the city never at peace. There was always some crime going on with someone needing help to haul Dick out of his wallowing. And so Dick’s flirtation with falling remained at that: flirtation. Until one night.
The night had been eerily quiet, so much so that there wasn’t even the standard idle chatter over comms—everyone was investigating. After all, such silence had to mean someone was planning something. Well, everyone except Dick. Dick was hanging.
He had faintly considered doing some detective work, but had decided against it. Most of the younger members were seizing the chance to get some experience investigating on their own. Dick didn’t want to hover. He could sympathize, he remembered being Robin so many years ago, wanting so desperately to prove he could do things on his own. Up here he wouldn’t get in anyone’s way.
The night breeze was cool. Its rustling was the only noise Dick heard beyond the faint but ever-present Gotham traffic. His comm had been silent the whole night.
The head rush from lying upside down had only intensified, forcing him to now actively concentrate on maintaining the footlock, and even that was getting challenging.
Something in Dick clicked. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. He almost didn’t want to, but he’d been waiting for it for so long and didn’t feel strongly enough about living to muster the strength to pull himself up and back on top of the roof.
So, just like his parents had engrained in him, he pointed his feet.
Unrestrained, the grapple cable slipped through his feet. It was far rougher than an aerial silk would’ve been, but it didn’t catch on his costume—no, nothing could stop a Grayson from soaring through the sky.
The building he’d chosen that day was tall enough that he had some time to think before he splattered to the ground. He wondered if his parents had enough time to think. He could remember his mother’s terrified look, but had that been a reflex or had she the time to process and fear for his future without them?
Dick’s eyes were closed as he plummeted down, wind whistling past him.
Perhaps he would see them soon.
On quiet nights like these, the rare moment when the streets were peaceful, Bruce liked to watch his children work. For so long, bringing some semblance of order to the city had been his crowning achievement. Now it was his family. So when the streets didn’t need it he watched over them instead.
He started with the youngest. Damian was “guarding” an animal shelter. Duke was at home, resting in preparation for his daytime work. Stephanie, Cassandra, and Tim were all keeping a steady eye out for trouble. Jason was at one of his favorite lookout spots. He was in full gear but his mind was clearly off the clock, even through the red helmet Bruce could see his son was enraptured by the Brontë novel in his hands. And Dick, Bruce wasn’t quite sure what Dick was doing.
As his eldest son grew older, Bruce felt like he knew him less and less. Part of it was probably just Dick growing up, part of it was the emotional fallout of being a crime-fighting family, and part of it was that (between living a double life and being a born and raised carny) Dick was very good at showing you what he wanted you to see about him—and nothing more.
He found his son hanging upside down in a construction site, meditating perhaps. He’d been up there for quite a while, ironically almost like a bat.
Bruce contented himself to watching, taking in his son’s still face.
Then something happened.
A tiny movement, and Dick was plummeting to the ground. Dick’s body showed no sign of panic, so Bruce wasn't worried. After years of watching his son on trapeze (and other more makeshift aerial equipment), he’d learn to not panic until he gets dangerously close to the ground.
He reasoned that maybe his son was just practicing his grapple work. But then Bruce noticed that Dick’s grapple was still tied to the roof. He could see no secondary grapple in Dick’s hand nor on his costume.
He began to worry and moved closer.
Dick continued to fall down, down, down. His body was so still that Bruce began to fear he wasn’t even conscious. That’s when Bruce decided to act. He didn’t care if Dick would mock him for being overprotective later, this was cutting things too close for his comfort.
Using his own grapple he swung in, catching Dick mid-air, far too close to the ground to be at ease.
“Are you okay?”
Dick opened his eyes, expression confused. Bruce began to feel a bit angry, to have one’s eyes closed so near the ground was a reckless miscalculation that could’ve ended very badly.
“Yeah, did you need my help?”
Bruce ignored his question, “What happened? Did you lose consciousness?”
“Nothing important. Do you need me for anything?”
With his son’s face unreadable, Bruce couldn’t tell to what depth he meant that question.