Note: As always, thanks for the review, usagipoints! :)


Either Joker had beefed himself up or Batman was tired. The hero was sure it was the latter because the villain had never tried to out-fight Batman. But here they were, almost five minutes in and Joker was still on his feet. The distinctive sound of a rapidly-firing gun had echoed down the alley three minutes ago and Batman knew he was going to have some cleaning up to do from wherever the sound had originated. But that was not the current issue; he had to take down Joker first.

Batman's ribs felt like they were grinding together, and he was pretty sure at least one was broken. One of the newly-recruited henchmen had been wearing steel-toed shoes, which were useful when kicking a crimefighter in the chest.

Joker finally went down and Batman dropped to his knees beside the villain. Taking out his Bat-cuffs, the Caped Crusader snapped them around Joker's wrists. Batman listened carefully and, when he heard no unusual sounds, decided he could take a moment to rest.

He had discovered the group of fifteen recruits just as Penguin had screeched away in his Penguin-mobile. They had all turned on Batman, so the hero had decided to start there instead of immediately going after Penguin.

Many of the recruits were young and inexperienced. They either got in the way of someone else's attack or were swiftly taken out with a single punch. Batman had gone through eight of them. The remaining seven, however, were obviously the more experienced ones. They had gone for the circle approach, taking turns attacking with methodical precision.

Batman had already received the steel-toed kick to the chest and another one on his left calf by the time he was down to seven. But then something had happened. Those men shouldn't have gone down with one punch. Those men knew what they were doing as a unit. But two of them had been unconscious on the sidewalk when he had turned back to defend an attack that hadn't come. And, somehow, the one that had decided to run away had ended up face-down six yards away.

A memory dashed through his mind. There had been a flash of color, speeding away into this very alley. He had chased the color but had found Joker instead. Gunshots, there had also been gunshots. But here he was, sitting on the dirt instead of going to investigate both the color and the sound.

The clouds that he hadn't even noticed opened up and sprinkles of rain began dancing through the air. Standing up, Batman decided to check the next street before going back to the Batmobile. He winced as he carefully prodded his ribs – definitely at least one broken.

It took ten seconds to get to the end of the alley. The street was empty except for two motionless bodies and a car. Batman walked over to the closest lump of flesh – Jasper Dunston. Grateful that this man was going to be locked up again, he knelt down and used some Bat-rope to tie the man's wrists together.

Then he stood up and moved on to the next body. Oliver Williams, the Australian. A sigh of relief quietly released itself as he tied up this man, also. There was a gun by the criminal, obviously the source of the shots he had heard earlier. Batman took out a Bat-towel and carefully picked it up. It was empty, he could tell by its weight, so he put it back down. Since the gun was empty, where had all the bullets gone? They hadn't hit Jasper and no windows were broken anywhere.

Standing up, the Caped Crusader carefully scanned his surroundings. It didn't take him long to see the first bullet; it was shining in the weak glow of a lamp across the street. He walked over and found the second one nearby. And then the third, and the fourth, and the fifth. They were almost in an exact horizontal line, as if the man had been shooting at a row of ducks at a fair.

The last bullet was on the same side of the street as the car. As Batman bent down to investigate, he noticed a movement on the sidewalk about fifteen yards away. There was a shadow flat on the ground and a silhouette sitting beside it. He could see, even from this far away, that the one on the ground was dead – especially since there was some kind of weapon standing vertically on its chest.

The sprinkles became rain and the small, upright silhouette moaned softly. Batman realized that a child was staring at the dead body, and he began running. This was not something a child should be seeing.

Batman arrived at the scene and carefully scooped the child into his arms. The kid was in shock, that was obvious. He was covered in blood and squeezing some sort of crimson material. As Batman walked out of the shadows of the building, he glanced down at the child's face. Dick Grayson's usually expressive eyes, covered by a strip of black material, were staring right through Batman's face, seeing nothing.

"D…"

What did he call himself?

It took almost twenty seconds for Batman to remember Dick's secret identity name.

"Robin?" he questioned softly, astonishment in his voice.

The boy didn't respond so Batman said it louder. And louder and louder until he was yelling directly into the ten-year-old's face. But Robin didn't even flinch. He just stared straight ahead, tears sliding down his cheeks and torso heaving with each slightly-gasping breath.

Batman knew he needed to get Robin home, but he also needed to check the crime scene. He crouched down and gently put the boy on the sidewalk, his back leaning against the little car. Standing up, he turned back to the motionless body.

Mr. Mack stared sightlessly up at him, a knife embedded deeply in his chest. Robin wouldn't have…would he?

Batman crouched down and began thinking. He had no way to check for fingerprints and a wet Bat-towel would only smear everything around, not help him wipe the weapon clean. Glancing back at Robin, the man noticed they boy was wearing green gloves. And…tights? And why was there a yellow 'R' over his heart?!

Narrowing his eyes, Batman stood up again. He didn't need to wipe anything clean because of those gloves. Even if Robin had touched the knife, Dick Grayson's fingerprints wouldn't be on it.

Striding back to the boy, Batman scooped him up again and headed for the Batmobile.

"This was a stupid idea, Robin," he muttered. "You could have been killed."

"Killed," Robin repeated softly.

Batman looked down but Robin was still staring at nothing.

"Killed," the boy whispered, "I killed him."

"Did you?" Batman asked, somewhat roughly.

He remembered the way Dick had looked when he had picked up Mack's gun at the circus that night. Hatred and indecision and fear bursting from his eyes and written all over his face. Batman had doubted that Dick would shoot, but the fact that he wouldn't put the gun down had sent a ripple of panic through the hero's chest.

"Where did you get the knife?" Batman growled as he turned the corner into the alley.

Silence.

"A knife," the Caped Crusader stated, shaking his head. "Why a knife?"

Silence.

"Robin, snap out of it!" Batman suddenly demanded. "ROBIN!" he shouted when he received no response.

He walked out of the alley just as the rain stopped. The Batmobile was two blocks away. Robin, although light, was shivering, making it difficult for Batman to maintain a steady grip. And the fact that his body was coated with both blood and rain didn't help.

"I'm s…s…sorry," the ten-year-old whispered.

"Why?!" Batman commanded loudly.

Silence again. Batman growled and Robin turned his head toward the sound. The boy blinked his eyes, shuddered, and then somehow freed himself from Batman's grasp.

He landed in a crouch and stared up at his guardian, eyes wide with fear. Fresh tears began leaking out of his eyes. Batman didn't know whether to begin interrogating him or pull him into a hug.

The decision was made for him when Robin jumped up and wrapped his arms around Batman's waist. Pushing the small arms away, Batman crouched down and pulled the boy back into his chest.

"I didn't…it was an accident," the boy whispered through his tears. "I didn't…please believe me!" he nearly begged. "We just fought and then I was trying to knock him down but somehow the knife…and then I tried to stop the blood…but the knife…I didn't…I'm sorry!"

"Sh, chum, I believe you," Batman replied softly as he laid his hand on Robin's small head and gently guided it to his strong chest. "I know you wouldn't do it on purpose. You're too strong and smart to do that."

"I just wanted to help…I'm sorry."

That statement brought many questions to Batman's mind but he decided now would be a good time to go home. They could talk – and he would somehow pull every answer he needed out of the boy – in the Batcave. And he should talk to Alfred, too. Batman doubted that Dick would have been able to make himself a crime-fighting outfit, even if it was only tights and some kind of tunic-looking thing.

Something 'plopped' onto the sidewalk as Robin stepped away from Batman. The man looked down and saw the crimson material that the boy had been holding.

"It's a…cape," Robin whispered. "I tried to stop…but there was so much…"

"Let's go, chum," Batman commanded lightly, sweeping the material off the sidewalk and grabbing Robin's hand.

The ten-year-old trudged alongside the hero, head down and body still trembling. Batman glanced at him and wondered if it had been Robin who had taken down Jasper and Oliver. But was Dick Grayson strong enough to do something like that? Or had he just come upon their unconscious bodies and moved on when he saw Mack?

They were now in the Batmobile and, fifteen minutes later, the Batcave. Alfred, who had been sitting on a chair by the Bat-computer, was not surprised to see a little head in the passenger seat. Batman climbed out of the vehicle and glared at his butler as he strode to where Robin was already opening the door.

"Let's get you checked out," the hero murmured as he scooped the boy up again and took him to the medical area.

Alfred met them there and began opening drawers and cupboards. He could feel Batman's gaze on him and knew the expression would contain both anger and curiosity. If there was an expression. After all, the Caped Crusader was very good at never showing any emotion. Except around Dick Grayson.

"What did you do?" Batman growled.

Alfred turned toward them and, ignoring the question, said, "Master Dick needs a good rinsing, sir, before I can properly examine him."

Batman's gaze moved from his butler to his boy. Dick was covered in drying blood; there was no way for the men to know if any of it was his until that was washed away.

"Okay, kiddo, go rinse yourself…"

"Master Batman," Alfred quietly stated, his tone reproving. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to help Master Dick. He is in no condition to do it himself."

Batman took a longer look at Dick's face. His eyes were slightly glazed and he was unconsciously chewing his lower lip. The ten-year-old's body was still trembling minutely and the hero realized, for the thousandth time, that his butler was very wise. There was no way Dick would be able to stay upright and there was no way he would be able to scrub all the blood off by himself.

"Come on, chum," the man said quietly.

Dick didn't move so Batman picked him up and strode to the shower on the other side of the Batcave. When he got there, he stood the boy up and turned on the spray.

"Too much blood," Dick whispered as Batman removed the small mask.

Taking off his cowl, Bruce replied, "I'll take care of it, chum."

"No, it's going to be stained on me forever!" Dick whispered frantically. "It will never come off and…"

"Dick," Bruce interrupted calmly, "I will get it off you. I promise."

Squeezing his eyes shut, the ten-year-old nodded. Bruce took off the blood-covered tunic and tossed it to the side. It took five minutes of hard scrubbing to get most of it off. The skin on Dick's arms and neck was now pink, a result of both the scrubbing and the leftover blood.

"I told you it would stain," the boy whispered. "I'm bloody…"

"No," the man interrupted again, "you're not stained. After Alfred checks you out, we'll come back and do a little more scrubbing. It will come off, chum."

"I'm a…a murderer!" Dick wailed softly. "I killed him and now I'll never be good enough!"

"It was an accident, Dick," Bruce immediately assured him. "I don't know exactly how it happened – that's something we're going to talk about – but I know you would never do something like this on purpose."

They walked back to where Alfred was patiently waiting. Bruce picked the boy up and set him on the medical table. Dick, without saying a word, held out his arm and Alfred breathed a quiet sigh of relief – the majority of the blood was not from his small body. There was a shallow slice, one that wouldn't need stitches, and a bruise on his shoulder.

His face, however, was a different story. The boy's left eye was going to be purple by tomorrow and his jaw was already slightly swollen. There was also a small lump on his head.

"Are you dizzy, Master Dick? Did you take a hit to the head, young sir?"

"Um, a little," the boy answered quietly.

There was a short pause as the ten-year-old tried to remember what had happened.

"I hit my head on a car," he finally added.

Alfred picked up a penlight and shined it into Dick's eyes. The pupils were slightly dilated but his eyes weren't darting around. Holding up his index finger, the butler moved it left to right and Dick easily followed the movement.

"A mild concussion, sir," Alfred said in the direction of Bruce. "He can focus and he's not slurring or having trouble speaking."

"I know," Bruce answered, his voice outlined with a small amount of pain.

Alfred glanced at the man then back at the boy.

"Master Dick, do you mind if I check on Master Bruce?"

"No," both Dick and Bruce answered at the same time.

"I'm sorry, Master Bruce, but you don't have a choice. Go change while I bandage Master Dick's arm and get him some Bat-ice."

Bruce stared at Dick for a moment then turned and walked away. Three minutes later he was back. Dick was lying on his back, nearly asleep, and Alfred motioned Bruce to another medical bed.

"Shirt, sir."

Bruce grumbled something but took off his shirt. The right side of his torso was mottled with bruises. When Alfred probed the area, the younger man couldn't hold back the gasp of pain. Humming to himself, the butler began wrapping the ribs of the Caped Crusader. It took him less than a minute – Alfred prided himself on being efficient – and then he walked around Bruce, searching for other injuries.

"Just some Bat-ice for my calf, Alfred," Bruce stated. "That's all, I swear."

"Then what is this on your shoulder, Master Bruce?" the butler replied.

Bruce glanced at his shoulder and was surprised to see another large bruise.

"I have no idea," he stated truthfully.

Tsking to himself, Alfred left and quickly returned with two small packages of Bat-ice.

"Now, we need to talk," Bruce growled as he placed the ice on his shoulder. "What did you do?"

"He was going to go after you anyway, sir, and you've been debating with yourself for over three days now," Alfred replied stoically. "I don't know how he found out about the breakout but…"

"It was him, wasn't it?" Bruce murmured.

"Master Bruce?"

"Some of the henchmen went down and stayed down when they should have been able to get up again."

"His job was to be your backup and cleanup man, sir. He was to be a shadow."

"He was, I didn't even see him," Bruce mused. "If his cape hadn't been…"

The man glanced at the blood-soaked material that had been left on the floor by the Batmobile.

"…whatever color it used to be," Bruce continued, "I wouldn't have even known he was there."

"Yellow, sir."

"Did you put that uniform together?"

"I did take the liberty, Master Bruce. I could not allow him to run around in Dick Grayson's clothing, like he did at the theater, sir."

"Tights, Alfred?"

"As I told Master Dick, we work with what we have. If…"

When

"…you decide to allow him to become your partner, I will make a more suitable outfit."

"Sidekick."

The word floated gently across the short space between the two medical tables.

Shaking his head, Bruce growled, "This idea was idiotic, on both of your parts. Neither of you should have done what you did."

"Be that as it may, sir, what's done is done. You are both here with very few injuries. How many…"

"Fifteen henchmen – some new recruits – Joker, Dunston, Williams and M…"

Bruce paused and glanced at Dick.

"I need to get back out there," he continued. "There are too many of them running around."

"It was me."

Both men turned to look at Dick. He was sitting up, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while the other clenched into a tight fist.

"I knocked out Jasper and the Australian. Then I killed Mr. Mack."

"You…what, Master Dick?!" Alfred nearly shouted.

"It was an accident," Bruce stated evenly. "What happened, Dick?"

"He knew who I was, he recognized my tumbling."

"When did you tumble?"

"When I was fighting the Australian. He had just run out of bullets so I had to get to him quickly, in case he had another weapon. Tumbling is the fastest way to get somewhere. For me."

"He ran out of bullets shooting at…" Bruce prompted, although he was sure he knew the end of his statement.

"Me," Dick whispered. "The first one was a warning shot; he said he didn't want to fight me. But you were fighting Joker in the alley. I couldn't let him get to you. So, I ran."

"You…ran," Bruce commented, a touch of disbelief in his tone.

"Across the street," the ten-year-old clarified.

"Ducks in a row," the man grumbled.

"Sir?" Alfred asked.

"The bullets, they were almost perfectly aligned, as if Williams was shooting at ducks in a row. How did you not get hit?!"

"I had surprise. Who would do something as idiotic as running in front of a gun-wielding professional criminal? Nobody, especially not a child. He wasn't expecting it."

Dick raised his shoulders slightly in sort of a half-shrug. He ran his hand through his hair, winced, and took a deep breath.

"I counted bullets," he continued, "and got lucky with his choice of weapon."

"Idiotic is the correct word," Bruce growled. "That was an idiotic idea. You should be dead right now."

"That's what I told myself before I did it."

"Yet you did it anyway!"

"I had to keep him occupied until you were done with Joker!"

"Do you have any idea…" Bruce cut himself off, feeling the anger rising to the surface. Now was not the time to yell at the boy.

"After that is when I tumbled. I guess Mr. Mack was probably watching the whole time."

"Do you have any sense of self-preservation?" Bruce almost snarled.

"Umm…."

"What Master Bruce is asking, young sir, is if you hesitated even for a moment before deciding to allow the man to shoot at you?"

"No," Dick immediately answered. "Why would I do that? Batman was injured and fighting Joker. I had to keep him – well, try to keep him – safe. Which meant I needed to keep the guy occupied. Which meant I needed him to get rid of his bullets. How else was I supposed to do that?"

"How else?" Bruce muttered incredulously as he pushed himself off the table. "This is ridiculous," he stated a little louder. "You think I needed your help so much that you decided to allow a professional killer to shoot at you. And you hoped that he only had a gun with SIX. BULLETS!"

The last two words were punctuated by a large fist slamming itself onto the counter right next to Bruce.

"What else could I have done?!" Dick yelled. "How do you make a man get rid of six bullets?!"

"WHAT ELSE?" Batman roared. "You could have stayed put! You could have gone around him in a back alley and made your way to the Batmobile! You could have come to the alley where I was fighting Joker and stayed out of sight! You could have STAYED. HOME!"

"And what could have happened to you if I had done any of those?" Dick asked softly. "You could have been killed."

Bruce huffed in disbelief then said, "Possibly dying is part of my job description. You are ten; it is not part of yours."

There was a long, awkward pause before the man spoke again. His voice was low and hard.

"We're done. Robin? He's done. You are no longer allowed to help Alfred in the Batcave and I won't be training you anymore. In fact, you are banned from here. This can't happen again and if the only way to keep you home is to keep you out of here, so be it. Leave, right now, and don't ever come down here again. Go up to the Manor and go to bed."

Dick's eyes were wide and full of shock. Alfred's eyebrows were raised but he knew better than to disagree with Bruce when he was in this state. This had never happened to Dick, though, and the butler was also shocked.

"I'm sorry," the ten-year-old finally whispered after what seemed like a year. "I was just trying to help."

"Batman. Doesn't. Need. Help."

The words were sharp and sliced into Dick's heart like Mack's knife had sliced into his arm. He got off the table and dropped his eyes to the floor.

"O…kay," he mumbled. "I, um…sorry."

With that, ten-year-old Dick Grayson made his way to the service elevator and left the Batcave. Bruce sighed in both guilt and relief.

Alfred had so much to say but refused to let any of it leave his mouth. Bruce had just made a bed of worms and the butler wasn't going to help him get out of it. He glanced over his charge's body one last time, searching for any tiny injury he might have missed. Satisfied with the result, the older man walked away and returned to the Manor. A little boy needed some comfort…and perhaps cookies and hot chocolate. The cookies would have to wait until morning but at least he could allow the boy to cry it out over hot chocolate.

"Alfred?" Bruce asked the empty Batcave. "What would you have me do?" he sighed, regret filling his voice. "The only reason Dick is alive is luck. He's lucky that Jasper is old, lucky that Oliver had six bullets, lucky that Oliver only had one gun, lucky that Mack didn't have a gun, and lucky that the knife ended up in Mack's chest instead of his own!"

Bruce began striding around the Batcave. He had done the right thing, he was certain of that. If Dick wasn't allowed down here, he wouldn't continually be tempted to go out and pretend to fight crime.

"Pretend?" the man scoffed at himself. "He didn't pretend, he actually did!"

"Pure luck."

"But he took down three guys."

"And one of them is dead."

"I need to find out what happened…how it happened."

"I'm sure he'll want to tell you everything," the man snapped sarcastically. "Especially since you just kicked him out of, and banned him from, the Batcave."


Alfred, after leaving the Batcave, had immediately gone to Bruce Wayne's study and pressed a button on the side of the Batphone. The button that turned on the hidden tape recorder in the Batcave. With a knowing look in the direction of the Batpole, the faithful butler left the study and went to the kitchen. Dick needed both a listening ear and a cup of hot chocolate.


Dick exited the service elevator and went directly to his room. Banned. He was banned from the Batcave! All he had been trying to do was help – all he had done was help! – but Batman was ignoring that. Yes, Dick admitted to himself, he had almost died…twice. But that didn't mean he should never be allowed to help again!

An overwhelming feeling of sadness enveloped his small body. The ten-year-old slowly walked to his bed and allowed himself to fall forward onto his stomach. Then, he began to cry.

Five minutes later, Alfred was knocking on Dick's bedroom door. Dick didn't answer, so the butler quietly turned the handle and opened the door. The boy was face-down on his bed, his entire body limp.

"Master Dick?" Alfred said softly. "I have hot chocolate, young sir."

The butler made his way to the bed and put the mug of steaming liquid on the bedside table. That's when he saw the dried tear tracks and closed eyes. Assuming Dick had cried himself to sleep, Alfred retrieved a blanket from the closet and placed it on top of the boy.

"He hates me, doesn't he."

It was a comment, not a question, and the words were so quiet that Alfred almost didn't hear them.

"Of course not, Master Dick," the butler whispered. "He is concerned for your safety. You scared him because you nearly died. Master Batman is right – we should not have done what we did tonight."

"But I helped!" Dick mumbled, rolling onto his back so he could see Alfred. "I was his cleanup man, just like you told me to be. It's not my fault that those guys were on the next street!"

"That's true, young sir. However, instead of engaging, you could have turned back the way you had come. While Master Batman was fighting Joker, you could have stayed in the shadows and waited for it to be over."

"The Australian guy was going to the alley. He would have killed Batman! His gun had five more bullets after his warning shot and with only two people fighting he would have had an easy target. Batman would be dead if I hadn't done what I did!"

"Although that is a good point, it is not necessarily true, Master Dick. Master Batman has been – well, Batman – for a long time. He has an extensive amount of experience in dangerous situations. He has been in worse situations than fighting a villain with another villain ready to shoot at him. You, however, don't know that…"

"I know he has experience!" Dick interrupted.

Alfred raised an eyebrow and the ten-year-old mumbled, "Sorry."

"Do not presume that you know everything about him, Master Dick, or his experiences. Your lack of knowledge regarding his crime-fighting life made you reckless. In your concern for him, you threw any hint of self-preservation out the figurative window. The rash decision you made, although meant to be helpful, nearly got you killed, young sir."

"But I didn't die," Dick stated stubbornly.

"Be that as it may, I'm inclined to agree with Master Bruce on this point. He should not have banned you from the Batcave, Master Dick, of that I am sure. However, he cannot trust you to take care of yourself in 'the field'. Sad as I am to say this, Master Dick, right now you are a liability."

"But how can I stop being a liability if I can't train anymore?!"

"I don't recall Master Bruce saying anything about you not being allowed to train," Alfred replied with the tiniest of smiles. "He said, 'I won't be training you anymore'. There are other ways of learning, Master Dick."

Determination replaced the sadness and Dick sat up.

"I'm going to train until I'm so good that he can't help but trust me! I'm going to work harder than I've ever worked before and then I'm going to go out with him and prove it!"

"He will not willingly let you go with him, Master Dick."

"What he doesn't know…"

"Please give him some time, young sir. He cannot bear the thought of losing you and, if it did happen, it would destroy him. Especially if it happened because he allowed you become a ten-year-old crime-fighter. I will talk to him about your banishment from the Batcave, Master Dick, but even that will take some time."

"Thanks, Alfred," the boy said with a small grin.

Standing up, he wrapped his strong arms around the butler's slim waist and squeezed hard. Alfred, just as Batman had done earlier, removed Dick's arms and crouched down. He pulled the boy into a comforting hug and Dick flung his arms around the man's neck.

"You are quite a remarkable child, young sir, and I'm glad you are here with us. You have brought a light into our lives that can never be replicated or replaced. Thank you, Master Dick, for being who you are."

"You're amazing, Alfred," Dick whispered, "and wise, and good at giving advice, and a good – no, an excellent – chef and…"

With a quiet chuckle, Alfred said, "We all have our own talents, Master Dick. Now, it's late and you need to get some rest. It has been a trying night for all of us."

Dick stepped out of the hug and climbed into bed. He was asleep before Alfred could even say 'good night'.