"You'll never be able to scare me, Dick," Bruce stated matter-of-factly, watching with mirth as his young ward rolls his bright blue eyes. He huffs in frustration and, crossing his arms, stalks away in faux anger.
"I'm gonna get you, Bruce," the ten year old declared over his shoulder, "I'm gonna scare you."
The boy kept up his attempts at frightening his guardian for years, leaping out of the shadows or dropping from the rafters above on his seemingly unaware adoptive father. All to no avail, unfortunately, and much to the older man's amusement. It wasn't until the boy was fifteen and shot through the chest that he accomplished the extraordinary feat of scaring Bruce Wayne, the goddamn Batman.
"Told you...I could s-scare you," Robin whispered hoarsely, his bloodied glove losing its grip on Batman's cape. No, no, no! the father inside the Caped Crusader moaned, watching helplessly as his adoptive son bled out. His attempts to staunch the flow weren't aiding in the least, and he could feel Dick's heartbeat falter beneath the gold R embroidered on his chest. The feral animal side of him snarled with desperation and fear, wanting nothing more than to snap the Joker's neck, but the homicidal clown was long gone - a maniacal laugh signifying his departure - and Dick needed him.
The boy's eyes were turning a glassy blue - his mask having long been removed - and Bruce couldn't help the sob that escaped his lips. The warehouse was quiet for a moment following his emotional outburst, heavy and stiff and sticky and smelling of iron, just a father and his son holding on for a few more moments, before the silence was shattered by a choked laugh;
"Are you scared...dad?" Dick wanted to know, his cerulean eyes rolling till they landed on Batman's white eye slits, searching for confirmation that this was real, and this was happening, and he wasn't the only one frightened by the prospect of it all. Pushing back yet another cry of rage as well as his cowl, Bruce lifted his son closer to his chest, gripping him tightly in a possessive manner that would do no good here, that wouldn't stop the bleeding and wouldn't heal the wound and wouldn't quell the burning blackness the billionaire could already feel rearing it's ugly head from within his twisting gut.
"Yes, Dick," the man answered gruffly, his throat catching on imaginary shards of glass as he continued to hold his ward's gaze, his shoulders shaking from barely contained agony and longing and the irrepressible urge to give in and think no more, look no more upon his dying boy,
"I'm scared."
"Gotcha," the ebony haired boy replied triumphantly, his tiny, breathless voice almost nonexistent and barely able to reach his father's ears. And then his beautiful blue eyes closed, his too-big heart - open to everyone despite their flaws - stopped beating, and his chest with it's boldly emblazoned symbol of hope and justice - the R of his, his Robin - rose no more to greet Bruce's Kevlar clad one. The older vigilante finally let go of all his bearing, heart wrenching howls and cries of disbelief and grief and unimaginable pain echoing throughout the warehouse, and perhaps throughout the city as its youngest protector lay still in his arms.
What he told his son was true; he was scared. Not only that his son was dying, but of what would happen when he finally succumbed to Death's sweet embrace. Now there was nothing but a broken man cradling his broken boy and a monster growing uncontrollable within his chest and his mind. Without his acrobat, flying through the night felt impossible. Without his blue eyed Boy Wonder facing the public alongside him, acting as the playboy businessman felt stupid and useless and more of a charade than ever. And without his son, his light, his little bird to keep him sane, letting the bad guys live felt wrong and disgusting and unfair. Bruce couldn't help but think of the irony of it all. Dick had always held a firm belief that no one deserved to die, not even if they'd caused death themselves. And yet the villains, the slimy things holing up in dark alleyways and praying on the easiest of targets and smiling gleefully through it all, never held the same restraint; now Dick was dead, gone, never to laugh or fly again. His wings clipped by the very city he'd sworn to protect.
No more, a ravaged voice threatened from within the confines of his usually put-together thoughts. No more letting them win. As Bruce Wayne clung to Dick Grayson, the darkness the boy had kept at bay so easily for six long years finally dredged itself up from the pit that resided in Bruce's subconscious, festering and blistering and crying out for the life of his boy. It halted at the very precipice of his conscious mind, waiting. Wondering if the man would finally succumb and become the animal he dressed as and destroy the things crawling in the night in Gotham City. And with one last glance at the cold, unmoving, unthinkable reality in his arms, he let it. Bruce Wayne thought no more, and the Bat growled in bloodlust as it completely devoured the defeated father.