Little pick-myself-up fic

[icarus_chained]

What happens when I watch Cirque Du Soleil to cheer myself up.

Title:  Circus
Rating:  PG
Characters/Pairings:  Dick Grayson, Bruce
Summary:  Then and now, some things remain the same. Gotham is her own circus, in Dick's eyes.
Wordcount:  797
Disclaimer:  Not mine.

Circus

The thing about the paints was, they were ugly. Up close, in the dressing rooms, it was like walking through a grease-scented menagerie of the ugliest creatures ever born. The paints changed people. Changed their faces, made eyes glitter madly in darkened hollows, lifted cheekbones to razors, made mouths into bloodstained maws. Powered hair, white and grey, blacker than black, or garnet hanging. All of it.

And then the costumes. Skintight, trailing clouds of fabric, frayed and worn and garishly faded. Sequins scattered behind the dancers, littered in their wake. Glitter behind the acrobats, mingled in the dust with the aerialists' rosin, the spatters of paints, all clumped and clustered around the shuffling prints, the puffs cast up by running feet. And the smell! Sweat and dust and grease and oil, cleaning fluid, metals scraped and tangy. The noises crowded around you, yells and clatters, rails clanging as costumes changed hands, thumps and bangs as equipment passed through, thudding feet and scattered panic.

Ugly, the whole thing. Crowded, never more than half-finished, pandemonium a bare step away. Panic held on the thinnest of leashes, maddened creatures run amok in rampant colour, faces flashing like alien beings past you, smiles more rictus than grin. Backstage, nightmare reigned. But in the ring ...

In the ring, oh, it was transformed! All, everything, changed once more by the lights and the hush and the awe of the audience. What had been ugly was made once more beautiful in the blink of an eye, and the lights went down, the spots came up, and the bodies tumbled into motion, careless and controlled, professional and joyous. Those spots caught the paints, the masques, and transcended them, made them the faces of spirits and gods. No more grease and warped features, they were faces in their own right, the face of a performer, of a master. The alchemy of light and motion, to change the mundane to the divine.

And the costumes, too, transformed in that same moment, caught by worn edges and thrown into whole, dazzling silhouette. Reds and greens and golds and blues, skin-coloured and black, shown in relief as blocks of colour and motion, teasing intricacies that had once been flaws, drawing eyes inexorably. The magic of the motion, of the ring.

It wasn't the same here, Dick thought. No panic backstage, no noises run amok. Cold, calm. Precise. Everything in its place, everyone moving in time even before the show. Different circus. Different ring. Different ringmaster, aloof and professional, eyes blank behind the mask. But still. Even still. Some things remained the same.

There were the smells. Grease, not from paints but from machinery, from oils and gels, smeared strategically, but still familiar. Masks in place of paints, but still they changed the face just the same, made it alien and ugly, altered the lines and made it unrecognisable. Costumes, black and close, swirling fabric, then bright and garish, impeccably kept save for the tears of violence, the old scuffs and marks that Alfred had yet to fix. Standing still, in full light, they were so nearly ridiculous, so nearly wrong. But then. Oh, but then.

In the city. The new ring. With the lights down low, the moon rising and the streetlamps to serve as the spots, when bodies tumbled into motion, careless and controlled, professional and joyous. Fabric moving, catching eyes when it needed to, hiding the performer when not. Lines and leaps, lights and magic, tumbling through streets and rooftops, performers, masters. Red and yellow became crimson and gold, black the night's own cloak, and the circus cast its spell once more, made what was ugly beautiful, what was ridiculous terrifying. Acrobat or crime-fighter, it was all the one.

And then the deepest magic of all, the need and the joy, the hands catching each other in the darkness beneath the spots, the bodies moving together, the eyes watching each other as they leapt, keeping watch, keeping safe. Camaraderie. Friendship. Joy. When your life was in your partner's hands, and those hands never failed, never missed the catch. The dancing, the flying, hand in hand, heart in mouth, beneath the big top, beneath the stars.

Sometimes he still missed it. Missed the circus, missed his family, with an ache that he thought must pull his heart through the bottom of his chest. He missed them. He did. But here, right here, there was Gotham, and the great circus she made. There were clowns, and sideshow freaks, and acrobats and tumblers. There was flying, and fighting, and the great show that made a hero's life.

And there was Bruce. His partner, his ringmaster, who moved with him in the spotlights, and whose hands never missed the catch. They were a circus in their own right.

And wherever Dick was, whoever he was with, that meant home.