(Untitled)

[goldeneyedflash]

Training with Tim. Lab work. Training with Dick. More work. Sleep until dawn. Then start over. That was Bart's life in a nutshell. Except that it was going to change because Dick had informed him he was signing up for his gymnastics class. The words were Dick's, but it was an order from Nightwing. And Jill was still worried

Comments

[cantstopmoving]

Pass after pass, Bart misses tricks, misses landings, leaves out critical turns. On the horse, his swings lack focus and precision, having just raw power from the anger leaking off him like a thin black oil slick. Dick wants to work it out of him, but Bart's inside himself so far putting him on bars or rings or anything where concentration's any more critical is asking for him to get hurt.

If anything hurts Bart today, it's going to be him.

He watches Bart stretch, arms crossed over his chest, fingers tapping impatiently against his bicep. His question snaps Dick's patience and he's in motion before Bart can finish the sentence, standing over him when he does.

"You want to know the point? Get up." Bart's not talking about the gymnastics, really. He's not talking at all. Dick's let Kon and Cassie and Jill try. Hell, he's tried. Now they're going to settle it a little differently. At least for today.

[goldeneyedflash]

His head snapped up towards Dick at that, a cold glare of hatred that had a target, at least for now. But Bart wasn't going to let him get more than that, because he'd lose more than his temper, so he took his time getting to his feet, silently daring him to make him move faster.

[cantstopmoving]

Dick stands, arms loose at his sides, feet spread. He'll wait. Bart ought to know better. You can't bait a Bat into throwing down. Childish. Petty. Infantile aggression.

Bart played at training. He faked his way through everything but housewifery. If that's what he wants, then he can have it. But he has to choose it.

"Whenever you're ready."

[goldeneyedflash]

Bart looked at him, assessing, and wasn't about to play this game today. He was just sick of it. That he'd never be good enough, or fast enough, or capable of being half what Dick or Tim did in their sleep.

"So you can hand me my ass like always? No thanks," he growled, starting to turn away. "I don't need this."