Dick flops bonelessly back onto the soft green couch in front of the large screen TV in the Mount Justice rec room. One sneakered foot lazes over the top of the couch, and his fingers wrap loosely around the remote, but it rests, unused, against his chest. He tosses an arm against his forehead to shelter his eyes; his lashes flutter open and shut against the bright white lights above.
Like blinking into the spotlights below the trapeze stage, trying to get a good look at the chattering crowds below.
Then there’s the whir of the zeta beams: distorted organ and violin music drifts past his ears. The excited babble in the background grows louder, happy and fast and incessant; he takes up the trapeze, dusty and rough in his hands. The patter of a pair of feet behind the couch, a warm, soft breeze, and he’s off, one hand on the bar, the blur of the yellow and red big top whizzing by, the thick, heady smell of hot dogs and cotton candy, and the heat, the warmth of a thousand people rising to meet him. He’s being caught, held, fingers wrapped around his ankles -
“Hey, hey Robs, you awake? Dude, get up.” The hand on his ankle shakes his foot carelessly. The sound of chewing popcorn. “Make room for me.”
An arm wraps around his waist and nudges him up into a sitting position; a familiar torso leans casually against him. It’s covered with brightly colored cloth slick like lycra, like his own circus costume, and it smells of exertion and salt and junk food and exhilaration: he’s brought back to the trapeze stage, pressed into the arms of his family.
“Have you even heard anything I’ve said about patrol with Flash?” A soft shuffle as kernels roll around the bottom of the bowl. “You want some?”
Dick’s eyes flutter back open behind his glasses, and a light grin plays at the corners of his lips.
And, oh yeah, Wally’s home.