Chapter Text
I
Conner, let it be said, is far from the den mother that Black Canary once was- and yet, here he was, suddenly thrust into the responsibility of watching over the younger members of the team anyway. Sure, Nightwing is the leader now, but he’s also 17, and far too busy coordinating teams and patrolling Gotham to worry about what the team is eating for dinner and if their homework is done. Mostly thought- he’s 17. Mature? Yes. Far too experienced for his age? Absolutely. But ultimately a teenager with far too many hormones and stressors on his plate. So yes, Conner finds himself as the den mother of the mountain, which thus finds him in this position, hovering outside Dick’s door. Dick who undoubtedly knows he’s out here by now and is waiting for him inside.
Eventually he rouses the courage and knocks on the door, which immediately opens because of course it does. On the bed is Nightwing, in full uniform sans the breastplate of his tactical gear as he’s stitching a wound on his side, with the tedium one might expect from someone sewing a button. A part of Conner still finds himself angry when this happens, angry at who hurt his friend, angry at Batman, at the league, at Dick, at the whole world. The other part of him, the more begrudgingly rational side, simply sighs and meanders over to the bed, wordlessly preparing alcohol swabs and bandages. When Dick finishes, he puts them to use, wiping away the remaining blood, inspecting the ever perfect-clinical stitches, and wrapping the bandages firmly around his friend, pretending he doesn’t see him wince. The process is silent, but not uncomfortable. Moments like this are fairly common for the two of them, loathe as Conner is to admit it. After a while, Dick lies back on his bed, shutting his eyes with an air of exhaustion, throwing his arm over his eyes. Conner follow suit, lying back, though he rests both of his arms behind his head.
“Are you gonna check in on me every week now SB?” Dick eventually asks, or moreso groans from behind his arm.
“Are you gonna keep being stupid?” he asks, in lieu of the real reply, which is yes. Of course, he is.
Dick huffs in reply, but doesn’t deny his stupidity, which is progress. They sit in silence for a bit longer, soaking in the moment, until Conner finds himself speaking again.
“The SATs are coming up soon.” He tries not to sound judgemental, but not uninterested.
“Did B put you up to this?” comes Dick’s sharp response.
Conner sighs, but answers calmly as he can,
“No Dick, he didn’t, and before you start-“ he cuts off the retort he can practically see coming, “ Nether did Wally, or Artemis.” He finishes, triumphant, he realises in rebuking the next few responses Dick had prepared.
Dick fiddles with his hands for a few minutes, thinking of the right words to say, until eventually he goes with,
“I just don’t get why everybody cares so much.” And Conner can hear it’s the truth, but he also can see it, just by the weight it seems to have on Dick’s spine as he continues, “Nobody really cared how I was doing in school when I was younger, or really if I even went, which I barely did after a while. Why does everyone care now? It’s not like anyone seriously expects me to go to college.” He finishes quietly, looking anywhere but at Conner.
And oh, Conner hadn’t expected such an honest answer. But he certainly isn’t going to squander this opportunity.
“Dick” he starts, “Dick you’re so, so – smart.” He says earnestly but catches his friends eye-roll from beside him.
“I’m serious, you’re so bright, and so talented, and-“,Conner pauses- sitting up, considering his next word carefully “ and- you deserve- more than deserve, the opportunity to build a life outside of the mask. A real one.” And he’s rambling now as he says “And maybe for you, that’s college, or maybe it isn’t. Maybes it’s a civilian job, or hell maybe its just getting your own place, or meeting a girl, or maybe its none of those things. But if its any of those, getting your SAT score - living that bit of normalcy- could be an important first step. And I don’t want to see you miss out, and regret it, because you’re angry at your Dad. Or at Wally.” He tacks on the end, and is shocked that Dick doesn’t deny it.
Hell, Dick doesn’t say anything for a second. Conner worries he’s stepped to far, and is about to rectify it, when he finds himself with an armful of bird. The force of Dick’s tackle nearly knocks him over, but he holds firm. Dick squeezes him tight, burying his face in Conner’s shoulder. For a while they sit like that. Conner rubbing his hand over his friend’s back, and Dick trying to pretend like he isn’t teary eyed at the prospect of someone actually caring about him. About what he might want.
“Alright.” Dick murmurs after a while, “Maybe I’ll consider taking the SAT.” Conner grins softly “That all I’m asking.”
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When late October rolls around, its rare to see Nightwing not surrounded by SAT practice books. The whole team has some unspoken agreement not to comment on it, but Conner sees the relief and pride in them all as they watch Dick work towards something for himself. He’s sure it’s reflected on his own face. While the late-night study sessions (read: flashcard flipping) with Dick are arduous and exhaustive, he never misses one. It’s almost relieving to watch his larger-than-life friend stress over something that’s not life threatening, or world-ending.
As early November greets them, with orange-ing leaves and cooler air, so too does Dick’s inner stress monster. He practically throws mission responsibilities back at Batman, while Kaldur is in Atlantis, who shoulders it without complaint. No doubt happy his son is finally doing something he wants, not willing to fracture the trust it takes for Dick to do this. Conner subsequently makes it his responsibility to keep Dick healthy, grammar review over breakfast only, no literature practice till after he takes a shower, no mathematics practice unless he goes to bed by 10.
Eventually the day arrives, and Conner feels like he’s more nervous than Dick himself. Dutifully he walks Dick to the Zeta tube, all dressed up in his Gotham Academy uniform. They don’t exchange words, but they do hug, briefly, and Conner’s heart warms.
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The days don’t move fast enough, but eventually the results arrive. Conner barely has time to prepare as he hears the computers drone of “NIGHTWING B-01- BATMAN 02” , before he once more finds himself with an armful of bird. Dick is practically bouncing in his arms as he rambles, trying to explain that he “really only held back a little bit” but swears he knew all the answers, which Conner believes undoubtedly.
“Nightwing.” he hears Batman say sternly from behind him, but is almost delighted to see the smirk on his face when he says “You haven’t told him your score yet chum.”
And Dick lights up.
“1550 Conner.” he all but shouts, “I got a 1550!”
Conner scoops his up before he can even think, hoisting his friend up in delight as he cheers,
“A 1550?!” he laughs in disbelief, in relief, in pride “I’m so proud of you Wing! So - so proud.”
Dick blushes, but doesn’t shy away from the celebration, allows Conner to parade him around the mountain, telling anyone who will listen that his friend got a 1550 on the SAT, and could’ve gotten a 1600 is it weren’t for his secret ID.
Its one of the best days they have at mount justice in years. The kind of day that is dripped in sunlight and honey even years later. The memory of pride and celebration so strong it lights up even the darkest moments.
Eventually, Dick rushes towards the Zeta tube, rambling on about needing to tell Wally, but not without one final hug that says everything he can’t say out loud. “Thank you Conner.”, “ I love you Conner.” Thankfully Super-boy is well versed enough in Nightwing-ism to know exactly what is being communicated anyway.
As Dick leaves, Conner hears someone gruffly clear their throat behind him. He turns to see the one and only Batman, looking almost, almost shy, as he says, “Thank you- for whatever you did to get him to listen to you.” Before briskly exiting the mountain.
Yeah. Conner thinks fondly. This was a great day.