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Robin disappears from his line of sight, but that’s normal. Expected, even.
The informal plan, at the moment, is to drop from the rafters onto the four men below them. They’re sturdy, bulky, with wide-shoulders and hand weapons. None of them have guns, he’s double and triple checked, and it presents as a good opportunity for Dick to get some more real-combat hand-to-hand experience. He’s a quick learner, even quicker on his feet, and despite the difference in weight, the kid knew how to pack a mean slug.
The soreness in his left rectus femoris lifts a smile out of Bruce. It’s a good bruise.
Just barely, he catches a glimpse of movement, about 15 meters in front of him. The movement is so slight that, were he not aware of another person in the space, he would have not registered it at all. A flap of a pigeon’s wing in the night. He gives the signal, a tight flick of his hand, and they descend.
Robin lands first, decimating Goon #1’s shoulders on impact, and the man collapses. Batman lands directly behind Goon #2, who is too distracted by his colleague on the ground to register anything before he, too, kisses the floor. And, by the time Goons #3 and #4 are raising their weapons, finally comprehending the situation, the dynamic duo is on them. A crowbar goes flying, skidding across the concrete, and a yell of equal parts pain and shock follow after it as Goon #3 falls.
Robin toys with Goon #4, skipping around his wide arced blows, and he leaps above a low swing to grab at the man’s collar, kneeing him in the face. Stumbling back with a curse, Goon #4 blindly brandishes his weapon, and Batman watches on, pleased and amused, as Robin continues to stay just out of reach. They’ll probably need to debrief later about efficiency and preventing undue harm, but for now, it’s a good, low-stakes exercise that Robin does flawlessly.
“What’s the matter?” Robin goads, ducking under another swing. “It’s like you’ve got two left feet!”
Turning away, Bruce goes to handcuff the downed offenders. They’re all in various stages of groaning and consciousness, and he begins the task of checking them over for any accidental serious injuries. It’s as he’s assessing Goon #1’s shoulders that he hears it.
Grhk.
The sound of someone choking.
Whipping around, Bruce turns in time to see Robin backflipping out of a tight grip, Goon #4’s hand clutched around the top of his uniform. The move manages to release the choking grip and Robin plants his feet squarely into the man’s jaw, his body smacking against the concrete, knocked out cold before impact.
Heart pounding, Bruce rushes over, eyes narrowing as Robin gently rubs at his neck.
“Rude,” Dick mutters, glaring at the still body of his assailant.
“Are you okay?” Bruce asks, kneeling down to try and get a better look at his neck.
Dick shrugs him off, taking a step back. “I’m fine. He just caught me off guard.”
“He grabbed your uniform.” When Dick shrugs again, Bruce leans in closer. “He almost grabbed your neck. ”
“I got out of it,” Dick argues, jutting his chin out. “ And I took him down. What’s the big deal?”
Bruce’s lips press together, a thin line of deep unhappiness, and Dick sighs. “I’m fine, B. We got them all. I took down two of them, you know.”
“You can’t let them get that close to you.”
There are the beginnings of red marks around the ten-year-old’s neck. No broken skin, as far as he can tell at a surface glance, but they’ll need to clean it later, just in case. Vaseline, too, before Dick goes to bed. They could get Alfred to brew some non-caffeinated tea with honey, and have some waiting for the boy by the time they arrive back at the Manor. He’ll examine his neck again in the morning, pair it with another round of tea and maybe a hot cloth to soothe any irritation. It’s the weekend, so if any bruises do develop, they’ll have time to watch out for them before Dick goes back to school. It’s early February, it shouldn’t be too out of place if Dick needs to wear a turtle-neck. It shouldn’t come to that, but if—
“Helloooooo.”
A light tap on the side of his cowl forces Bruce back to the present, an echo of further protestations and excuses in his ear that he missed in favor of injury care. Robin is tilting his head, mask perfectly in place, and there’s the smallest quirk in his smile.
“Are you okay?” he asks, one of his canines missing and already over the night’s events. Rebounded.
In lieu of answering, Bruce just stands, walking over to felled Goon #4, and roughly pulls his hands behind his back, zip tying them together. After checking, again, that the rest of the assailants are secured, he calls in an alert to Gordon, and sends the Batmobile to their location. They silently climb into it, Bruce waiting until Dick has his seat belt buckled, before taking off into the night.
They’re a little further than usual from the Manor, and the drive is smooth and silent. Bruce flexes his hands against the steering wheel, the soft Grhk reverberating in his mind, and in his peripherals, he can tell that Dick is staring at him. The red of his costume conjures up worse images than the one he saw tonight, and Bruce forces himself to stare only at the road, unwilling to battle against the visions of dark, bruising rings and red teeth. He’s careful when braking, knowing that, though specially adjusted, the seat belt still hovered closely beneath Dick’s chin. He was still so small, still only ten, and Bruce tightens his grip around the steering wheel.
“What’re you so upset about?” Dick asks, fiddling with his gloves. When Bruce doesn’t answer, Dick huffs. “I can tell you are. Don’t pretend you’re not. You get all… all—” Dick straightens his mouth into a line and sucks in his cheeks, baby-fat roundness making for a comical mimic. “Frozen. Like a statue.”
Bruce stays quiet and Dick lets his head fall back against the seat in exasperation. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“You shouldn’t have let him get that close.”
“You’re still mad about that?” Dick asks incredulously. “I told you I’m fine!”
“It’s not about,” Bruce breathes in, “that. You were fine this time, but next time you might not be. You can’t let them get close to you. You know this.”
“It’s not like I let him on purpose,” Dick mutters. Then, louder, “Besides, I can handle any old goon. You saw how easy it was. They didn’t stand a chance against you and me.”
“ This time,” Bruce says back, turning into the secret tunnel. “ This time you beat them. But you can’t rely on surprise every time.” Ahead, the narrow walls open up, revealing stadium lighting and a lone man at its center. “What happens if there’s nowhere to hide? What happens if they catch on before you get the chance to attack first?”
“Then I beat them anyway! Isn’t that what you trained me to do?”
Gritting his teeth, Bruce parks and turns to look at Dick, eyes a blazing blue now that his mask has been ripped off. The skin around his eyebrows and under-eyes are irritated and red. Bruce tries to remember how to talk around his hammering heart.
“Train ing, ” Bruce corrects, taking off his cowl. “You’re not ready to take on criminals by yourself, much less grown men. That is why I am training you to evade and use their strength against them. You’re not—”
He cuts himself off. He’s said too much, it’s not any of what he meant. Dragging the weight of his cape behind him, Bruce vaults out of the car, biting at his tongue. Alfred appears carrying a tray of water and light snacks, and when he sees the tight look on Bruce’s face, he pauses. Dick isn’t far behind, scrambling out of the side door, and runs in the trail of Bruce’s long strides.
“Not what?” Dick taunts. “Not strong enough? Not tough enough? I beat you all the time when we spar! If I can take down you, I can take down any stupid henchman!”
Clipping off his cape, Bruce twists the heavy fabric in his grasp. “It’s different when we spar. That’s not the same as you fighting a stranger who wants to hurt you.”
“That doesn’t matter. I still beat you.” Dick stretches as tall as he can, cheeks flushed in his pride. From this angle, the abrasions look like shadows. Almost a hand.
“I let you.”
“Prove it, then,” Dick challenges. “I’m good at this. You know I’m good at this. If I can beat you, then that means I can beat anyone out there.” He throws his hand behind him, and Bruce catches a glimpse of callused knuckles. His gloves will need to be reinforced again soon.
“We’re done for tonight,” Bruce says, ignoring Dick’s outrage. “I’ll write the report, so go to bed.”
“No!” Dick stamps his foot. “That’s not fair. You can’t just tell me to go away just ‘cause you know I’m right, and you’re wrong. ”
“Dick,” Bruce warns. “That’s enough.”
“No! What’s the point of this if you can’t even trust me to handle myself against a few nobodies?”
“It’s not about trust. It’s about safety.”
“Yeah, right,” Dick scoffs, crossing his arms. “When have I ever lost against any of them, huh? I always win.”
“You can’t rely on ‘always’.”
“Says who?”
“Says me,” Bruce hisses.
“So? I’ve beaten you, too! More than once!”
“I told you, that’s different. You can’t—”
“Can’t, can’t, can’t,” Dick mocks, swaying side to side like a metronome. “Just ‘cause you’re afraid doesn’t mean I have to be, too.”
For a long moment, Bruce just stares at the little boy before him. With his short yellow cape and green sneakers, it’s hard sometimes for Bruce to recall the vision of an even younger version of him, covered in snot and tears and newly flayed for the world to see. The defiance, the pride, the sheer youthful brass reminds Bruce too much of himself. Too much of the lessons he’s had to learn as a result.
It is terrifying.
“Fine.”
He turns, walking towards the training mats.
Dick whoops behind him, rushing past to get on the mats first, amused and cocky as Bruce steps into the circle. “If I win,” he says, “you have to stop nagging me.”
Bruce says nothing, just grunts, as he gets into a ready stance. Dick copies him.
“And,” he adds cheekily, as they begin circling one another, “no more bed times.”
Dick wiggles, an excited habit they’ve yet to entirely get rid of, and Bruce lunges at him. It catches the boy completely off guard, the speed and ferocity of the attack, and in the time it takes to blink, he is pinned to the mat– completely flattened.
It’s over, just like that.
“Hey!” Dick protests, stumbling to his feet as Bruce stands up. “I wasn’t ready! We were totally bantering, and it’s off limits for attacking! That’s, like, rule number one of fighting! Let me try again.”
They begin circling each other once more, Dick much more wary now. Bruce feints to the right and tries to corner Dick, but the boy manages to roll between Bruce’s legs and attack from behind. Although a good strategy for their usual spars, Bruce grabs the side of Dick’s shirt and flings him off effortlessly. Dick has to flip to catch himself midair, and his eyes are wide as he sees Bruce cover the space instantly, an almost panicky jerk in his limbs as he struggles to evade Bruce’s grapples and holds. In the end, it’s futile, as he is pinned against the floor in the next second.
“Again,” Dick insists.
This time, Dick tries to attack first. It’s unplanned and a little out of control, and Bruce sweeps his legs out from under him. Dick’s breath punches out of him in a gasp as his back hits the floor, and it takes a moment for him to get back up.
“A-Again.”
He tries going for Bruce’s leg, the same one he managed to get a hit on a day ago. Bruce dodges easily and instead sends Dick careening into the mat with a timely and unseen forearm. Dick is breathing hard when he gets up off the floor, any trace of assuredness or pride wiped clean from his face. His scowl is troubled. Unsure.
“Again.”
The fifth, and final, attempt ends the same way. It doesn’t even last ten seconds. Dick is sweating hard, and when Bruce offers him a hand to help him up, Dick shoves it away. He stands by himself, hands flexing at his sides, and turns his back on the ring.
“You can’t let them get close to you,” Bruce says softly, unapologetic. “You’re not ready. Not yet.”
“Whatever,” Dick mumbles, and Bruce’s heart aches. “I’m going to bed.”
Bruce watches as Dick slowly trudges up the stairs, discarding his cape on the way. The loud screech of the door is all that’s left of the boy’s presence, and almost immediately, Alfred is in his face and scowling.
Bruce looks away.
“I trust this was a lesson and not just an ego-checking,” Alfred tuts, handing Bruce a water bottle. “Because I do believe that yours far outweighs that of Master Dick’s.”
Accepting the admonishment, Bruce glances towards the stairs again. “He got grabbed tonight,” he says, voice rough. “His uniform choked him.”
Startled, Alfred looks towards the stairs too, as if seeing a phantom there. “And you thought a spar was in order?”
“It was stupid.”
“Yes.”
“But necessary.”
When Alfred just continues to scowl, Bruce begins to pace in three-turn steps. His heart is still beating a hurricane in his chest.
Grhk.
“This was a lesson,” Alfred leads. Bruce nods. “About not getting grabbed?”
“He let his guard down,” Bruce stresses, fingers tapping against his palms. “He could’ve been hurt. Worse.”
“But he wasn’t.”
“Not this time.” Bruce grits his teeth, the sound of Dick’s air supply cutting off a plague. “He thinks it’s some kind of game, something that he can win. He’s gotten cocky.”
“Or,” Alfred suggests, “he’s just gotten confident. You have been training him for over a year now. He is incredibly skilled for his age.”
Bruce shakes his head. “For his age, yes, Dick is one of the best fighters out there. But he’s just a kid. He can’t go up against grown adults twice his height and four times his weight and expect to always come out on top. He needs to learn that.”
Bruce stops his pacing, staring blankly at the bottle in his hand. His mouth is dry. “It was so close. He doesn’t realize how close he was to…. And I was right. There.”
“Exactly,” Alfred soothes, coming to stand beside him. “You were there. Perhaps that is why Master Dick is so confident. He knows he’ll be okay so long as you are there with him.”
“I can’t… promise him that.” Bruce closes his eyes. “I can’t– No matter what happens, Alfred, I need him to be able to protect himself. He needs to learn how to do that.”
“And he will.” Gently, Alfred takes the water bottle away and replaces it with a change of clothes. “But before that day comes, he has you.” Pushing the clothes into Bruce’s chest, Alfred tries to catch his eye. “Master Dick knows this. He will learn as he gets older, but for now, he has you and that is enough. It’s unfair to expect him to take the whole world onto his shoulders like you have. Give him some time, Master Bruce. That boy respects you more than you could possibly imagine.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Bruce admits softly. “How do I… How—”
“You want what’s best for the boy, don’t you?”
Bruce nods. It’s not even a question.
“Master Dick knows that. Trust that he does. Children are much more forgiving of our faults than we are.”
With a final look, Alfred turns away, gathering the discarded uniforms and beginning the process of sanitizing the Cave. Bruce goes to change, staring at himself long and hard in the mirror– a man reflected that he has trouble recognizing most days– and glances sideways at the mirror that begins at his waist. Looking around him, Bruce counts all the adjustments they’ve made for Dick. Things were smaller, shorter, made more available for the child he shared a life with, and when he sees the little fingerprint smudges all around, something inside of him deflates like a pierced balloon.
Stupid. He is a stupid, stupid man, and Dick Grayson is too good for him.
Scrubbing his face hard, Bruce walks out and up the stairs, thanking Alfred as he passes him. When he crosses the threshold clock, he goes to the kitchen, rooting around for tea packets and mugs. Bringing some water to a boil, Bruce scoops out a few dollops of honey into each mug and pours the steaming water into them. The heat helps to calm him a little, noting the late time and the stillness of the Manor. Quiet had once been the norm. Now, it felt like an absence, the sound of bare feet and tumbling limbs like a missing organ; a cavity; supremely vital in all aspects, and yet, missing.
Ascending to the second floor is a slow and careful process, and despite his attentiveness, one of the mugs spills over a little. It burns the sides of his fingers, and Bruce grimaces. Finally, though, he reaches his destination.
Shifting the mugs to one hand, he gently knocks against the door. “Dick?”
The door opens instantly, and Bruce is greeted by glossy eyes and a small scowl.
“Can I come in?”
Dick looks at the mugs in Bruce’s hand. “What’s that?”
“Tea.”
“Alfred said I can’t have any after nine o’clock.”
“It’s non-caffeinated. I put honey in it.”
Dick seems to think for a moment. “Okay.”
He opens the door for Bruce and shuts it after, watching as his guardian goes to set the beverages onto the night stand. They stare at each other, eight awkward feet apart, and Dick looks anywhere except at Bruce’s face. Even though the room is dark save for a lamp light, Bruce can see the simple patchwork clustered beneath Dick’s chin. The greasy shine of Vaseline peeks around the edges of a non-stick bandage, and with the barest tilt of his head, Dick knows to come over so Bruce can look at it further.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, kneeling on the carpet.
“No.” There’s a sensitive tension in Dick’s answer. His eyes stay resolutely fixed on Bruce’s nose.
“It’s okay if it does.”
“It doesn’t. I cleaned it already.”
“Can I see?”
Dick nods and Bruce carefully thumbs back the bandage, assessing the redness. Some of it looks inflamed, though the area already looks leagues better than it did an hour ago. They’ll need to watch it, just in case, but for now, simple cleaning and heat will be enough to ward off any bruises. After reapplying the bandage, Bruce hands Dick the fuller mug and watches as he blows on it before taking a sip. One look from the boy is all he needs before also grabbing his own mug.
They sit down on the floor together, quietly sipping their drinks. Over the top of Dick’s head, Bruce gets a glance at the bathroom, where a red vest and undershirt lay crumpled in a heap. Zitka is in there too, perched neatly on the toilet seat lid, her black button eyes staring right into him. Bruce’s chest pinches again.
“That wasn’t fair,” Dick says suddenly, his voice quiet and directed towards his tea. “That wasn’t fair at all.”
Tongue numb, Bruce doesn’t say a word. He waits for Dick to continue.
“And it wasn’t nice.” The ten-year-old hides a sniffle into his drink. “And it was kinda– kinda scary. I didn’t know that you were… that I was so….” Dick raises a hand to quickly wipe at his eyes, forcing a wobbly smile onto his face. “You’re really strong, B. You were right. I’m sorry.”
Bruce grips his mug tightly– so hard he feels like it might shatter. He sets it down in stiff movements, wholly too aware of how his body moves, how massive he is and how small the boy in front of him is. Scary? Dick was scared?
“You…” the words die out, strangled in his throat. It feels like every nerve in his body is a live wire. Bruce wants nothing more than to tear out of his own skin. “That’s…”
Dick giggles a little, still staring into his tea. He seems to shrink into himself. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything. I get it now. I’m not…” Dick bites his lip, his shoulders shuddering. “I know I’m not ready. Not good enough,” he waves his hand, “for all that.”
The crack in Dick’s voice splits Bruce right down the center. It feels like lightning.
He wants to grab the boy. Shake him. Make him understand. “No.”
Dick looks up at him, eyes shiny and squinted. “I’ll work harder, okay? I just thought— I thought that I was—” He can’t finish his sentence, cuts himself off. “Sorry.”
Every word is like acid, gnawing against his teeth. Scared? Not good enough?
“You should probably be more serious when we spar from now on,” Dick says, wiping at his nose. Snot stains line the collar of his pajamas. “So I– So I know where I am and what I… can’t do.”
He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t. Get it.
The ferocity of what Bruce needs to convey won’t come out, though. His vocal cords convulse and stretch, tongue swelling so large it feels like his jaw might shatter, and still the words won’t come. And Dick just looks at him, his world entire. The air in the room feels hot and like a hand shoved inside his rib cage, squeezing at his lungs. Dick doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand. And he was scared.
Of Bruce.
“Are you okay?”
A hand on his knee sucks reality back into existence.
“You’re doing that face again,” Dick says, fingers tapping at his patella. Hesitatingly, Dick asks, “Are you mad at me?”
Of course not. He could never be. “No.”
Dick gives him a half-smile. Like a sunrise. “You say that a lot. It’s like you’re a toddler. What’s the opposite of ‘yes’?”
The hand cramping his lungs eases and air floods back in. He wants to speak. “Chum.”
“Uh-uh,” Dick chides, smacking Bruce’s knee lightly. “Try again. It’s your favorite word.”
“Dick.”
“I’ll give you one more chance. It’s another word for ‘nope’. Come on, B, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one outta the two of us. It’s begins with ‘N’, if that—”
“Please.” Bruce lays his hand over Dick’s anxious fingers. The touch is light, barely a discernible weight, and Dick freezes. “Stop.”
Dick’s hand is swallowed in his, and he can feel the calluses on Dick’s knuckles despite the ones on his own palm. The wind could separate their hands, and yet, there was warmth there. He could feel it. Life. How was it that someone so small could upend his entire world, just like that?
Just like that.
“You,” Bruce says, “are good.”
Dick’s eyes widen.
“My job is to protect you,” Bruce says. “I failed.”
“What?” Dick shakes his head, alarmed, “No, what? I’m okay. You didn’t– you didn’t fail , B. What– I don’t understand. What’re you talking about?”
This was going all wrong, this was not how he wanted it to go, so Bruce dares to press down on Dick’s hand and begs all the universe's powers to make him understand. He doesn’t know how to…
“You,” Bruce says, hushed and sincere and like talking to God, “are the most important thing.”
“B—”
“I will never hurt you.”
Ten fingers. Two heartbeats. Bruce stares into the eyes of the world and prays.
“I will always protect you.”
Says him. Against the world. Against the universe. Against me. Against anyone.
“Always.”
It was impossible and wrong to make a promise like that. It was stupid and arrogant and nearly begging for something to break it. But they had already vowed in dark candlelight. Against all odds. Against all circumstance. Together.
Always would exist for them. This, another vow.
So Dick nods.
“I know.”
And rebounds. Just like that.
“Of course I know that,” Dick says. It’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You know I’ll protect you too, right? We’re a team. When I get as strong as you, no one will stand a chance.”
Bruce stares.
“Hey, but, what happened to your thumb? That wasn’t there before.”
Bruce looks down at their stacked hands. The calluses and life.
“It was from the tea, wasn’t it? I’ll go get some burn cream. Alfred put some over here, I think.”
The little hand under his slips away, its owner darting to the bathroom, and Bruce tries to hold onto the fading feeling of warmth.
“Are you a medium or big band-aid? And do you want the dog one or cat one?” he hears asked of him.
Bruce flexes his hand, testing out the absence, the weight of it. The warmth stays.
“Big,” he answers, satisfied. “And I like dogs.”