As an acrobat, Dick valued his legs a lot. They were what allowed him to do all his flips and tricks. They were what allowed him to be himself. He never imagined he'd lose them, and never to someone as foul as the Joker.
Dick had been at home one night when Joker had broken in, shooting him in the stomach and severing his spinal chord. He'd passed out from blood loss, but not before Joker took sick pictures. He'd woken up to Wally over him, worry shining in his eyes.
When Dick had woken up in the hospital, he'd received the news that he would never walk again. He couldn't feel anything from his waist down, and his career as Nightwing had officially been ended. He'd returned home in a wheelchair, bound to it for the rest of his life.
At first, Dick had slipped into a depressive state. He wouldn't eat, nor would he sleep. He often stayed in bed, leaving his useless limbs spayed out. He let himself deteriorate, hoping he would fade enough so he could die. He didn't want to live in a wheelchair.
Unfortunately, his family had different plans. After a quick visit had told them what the acrobat planned to do, they relocated him to the Manor, where he would be under the watchful eye of Alfred. He didn't understand why they were keeping him alive. It was just pain for him.
Dick was never alone anymore. Whether it was Bruce working in his room, or his brothers bickering about who cared for him, someone was there. Dick understood why, but he didn't want them there. He didn't want to see anyone. He wanted to be left alone to wallow in his grief.
Tim, somehow, seemed to understand what was going on. Whenever he managed to win an argument with Jason and Damian, he was always quiet, although he was usually pressed against Dick's stomach. Sometimes, Tim could make Dick reconsider his wish to die, but it never lasted long. Tim was the only one who didn't push him to go back to his old self immediately.
After about a month at the Manor, the family decided to use the big guns and call Wally. Wally had been the one to discover Dick, because he was heading over for one of their Bro Nights™. It was a night to be stupid, to play on the X-Box that Dick was 99% certain Jason stole and just be teenagers. It wasn't supposed to be a night where you found your best friend bleeding to death on the floor.
Tim was with Dick at the moment, pulled against his chest like usual. His room was quiet, save the videos Tim kept showing him. Dick didn't understand half of them. What the hell was a Sprite pie? Why did it look like someone had thrown up in a pan and cooked it? It didn't make sense.
"Hey, Dickie." Wally smiled sadly. Dick looked over his shoulder, his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. He looked like hell on Earth. "Walls." "Yeah. Tim, mind giving us a minute?" Tim nodded, although he reluctantly got up.
Dick used his arms to sit up, watching as Tim walked outside the door. "How are you feeling?" Wally asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Dick shrugged. "I don't know. It's not like I can feel them anymore." Dick gulped. He hated not feeling them.
Wally grabbed Dick's hand, squeezing it tightly. "Well, did you feel that?" Dick nodded. "You can still do things, Dickie." "I can't do my acrobatics anymore, Wally. That's what hurts the most. My last tie to my parents is...it's gone." "It's not gone, Dickie. It's still here." "How?" "You're still alive."
Dick looked away, trying to hiding his face from Wally. "No, don't do that. I wanna help you, Dickie. I can't do that if you don't tell me how." Dick closed his eyes, trying to stop the tears. He didn't want to cry in front of Wally. He didn't want to worry him.
"Just let it out, Dickie. You've been through a lot." Wally wrapped his arms around Dick, holding him close. Dick buried his head in Wally's shoulder, hands bunching the material up. In one night, he'd lost almost everything. He could never get it back, even if he tried. He would never be able to swing through the streets again, he'd never be able to catch villains like he could. He would never be the same again.
