Being a superhero, certain things came with the job. The insanely ripped body, the endless nightmares, the numerous kids named after you somehow because you saved their parents, the love-crazed fans swooning over you. Scars were included in that category, which Dick hated. Of course, everyone had scars. Surgeries, incidents when they were kids, car accidents, the list was endless.
But people didn't have scars like he had scars. His whole body was covered in them, left from blades and bullets meant to end his life as Robin and Nightwing. Some were left from his circus days, accidents with the equipment or failed tricks that resulted in particularly deep cuts. Others were left by sick people, those who were willing to hurt and kill others (some who took pleasure in it) for their own cause. He had a particularly nasty scar across his abdomen, a result of a tussle with Poison Ivy and her thorned vines that had nearly killed him as Dick Grayson. He'd been stuck while Batman had done all the work, having to play the part of scared kid as thorns tried to pierce his intestines.
He hated looking at them sometimes. Scars weren't supposed to be a part of Dick Grayson's life. Dick Grayson was supposed to be a posh little rich brat, someone who knew the lavish life and nothing else. He wasn't supposed to have scars. He wasn't supposed to be marked up like an artist's old palette. His skin was supposed to be clear and smooth, something for others to look at and envy because it meant he had an easy life.
Most times, he didn't care. He could go out in a tank top or (for the events that allowed it, like a trip to the beach or sparring with his team) shirtless, and nobody asked because those people had just as many scars as him. But other times, he couldn't ignore them. They seemed to call his name, to mock him for having them in the first place. It was impossible to forget they were there, and it was impossible to look away from them.
Today was one of those days. Dick had caught sight of a scar on his left arm in the bathroom mirror, and now he couldn't walk away. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, so caught up in the scars and the memories that he didn't want to remember that he completely forgot he and Wally were supposed to be leaving soon. They'd been invited to a get-together with the original Team members, with the promise that they wouldn't have to baby-sit any of the others for a solid 24 hours (Dick had been very excited about the aspect).
"Dick? Come on, babe, we're going to be late - hey, are you okay?" Wally asked as he peaked his head into the bathroom, looking at his very still boyfriend.
Dick shrugged. "I don't know."
"Your scars again?" Wally walked into the bathroom, wrapping his arms around Dick's waist and pulling the younger man close.
"Yeah. You know how it is."
Wally hummed. "Stop me if I go too far, but why do you hate them so much? Just curious."
Dick froze for a second. Why did he hate them so much? Sure, he hated some of the memories that came with them, but why did he hate the actual scars themselves? "I guess...they make me stand out too much. Too many questions come with them. Too many bad memories."
Wally nodded. "What kind of bad memories?"
"Bad missions. Bad villains. Mistakes made."
"I know. Those memories suck. But if you think about it, they're not signs of weakness. They're signs of strength. You had to go through something difficult and make it out alive to get those. You're not the same, but you change to handle it."
"They don't make me feel strong. They make me feel really weak."
"Do my scars make me weak?"
Dick finally pulled his eyes away from his scars, turning around to look at Wally. "What? No, of course not. Why would you ask that?"
"Then why does it apply only to you. We've both got them. Besides, sometimes our scars connect us. Do you remember this one?"
Wally pulled off his shirt and pointed to a scar on his back, seared into his right shoulder. "This one? That mission to Australia, with the mutant kangaroos. This was how he marked whoever went against his kangaroos and won." Super healing could only do so much in the life of a hero. Wally had scars as well, more than people thought. Dick hesitantly reached up and touched it, tracing the familiar K. He had a matching scar, in the exact same place.
"I may not like my scars, and they may hurt in the rain and the cold, but I would never get rid of them. Not when every scar I have gives me a good memory of you." Wally smiled.
Dick moved his hand to a scar on Wally's shoulder. "What about that one?"
Wally's smile grew a little more. "That was when I first met you, and my dad beat me for bringing you over. You called the cops, and I was taken to Uncle Barry and Aunt Iris. And I got to spend the rest of my life in a safe home, loving you."
Dick blushed. "You really think that way about your scars?"
"Every scar has a story to it. It's up to the person with it what kind of story it is. I choose stories that remind me of you." Wally turned around and traced a few scars. "And these aren't hideous. You've been told the wrong story, and have told yourself that story over and over again. If you have to, make up stories. Say you got these claw marks fighting a dragon who was guarding a princess. It you got this one saving a pregnant woman from robbery. They're your scars, and your stories."
Dick had tears in his eyes. Wally hugged him again and gently shushed him. "It's alright, Dick. It's going to be alright."
Dick chuckled, a tear running down his face. "Thank you. So much."
