Watching Damian fight, it's disturbingly easy to forget that he's only ten years old.

It's not just the fact that he's a better combatant than any other kid Dick's seen, or how hard and quickly he disables his fake opponents. It's also his expression – eyebrows down in determination, mouth set in a straight line – pretty much the same expression he wears all the time. It's not like determination is bad, in training, it's pretty necessary. But he's not having any fun.

Dick remembers being eleven and training with Bruce. He knows how hard it was, he remembers how much he wanted to prove he could do it, he remembers getting frustrated with Bruce when things seemed impossible. But he also remembers, at least some of the time, having fun. How could you not? Even back then, when the Batcave was much smaller and less furnished, it was still like freaking Disneyland. The collapsible birdarangs were cool hi-tech gadgets he was going to use to save people! The grapple ropes were like nothing he'd ever seen before in the circus, and using them, he could do way more neat tricks than before. The mechanics of smoke bombs were mysterious enough that he tried to disassemble one and it blew up in his face, making him cough and throw up, but it was still so satisfying to finally get the explanation how they worked when Bruce explained that he didn't even care.

None of that kid-like wonder or fun is on Damian's face right now. He might as well be going to work, Dick thinks as he watches from outside the holo-room. Never mind how cool the holo-room would have been to Dick at the time – it took over four days, but Barbara's finally set it up and linked the machines that control the projectiles from the Batcave to the artificial intelligence that simulates the hologram opponents, meaning it will almost feel like Damian's interacting with the holograms. That would have blown Dick's mind as a kid, Damian just asked a couple questions about how it worked, said Hmmm and then got dressed as Robin for training.

It's not really necessary to wear patrol outfits in training, but everyone figured the extra cushioning on the costume would help work as protection. Nothing in the room should hurt Damian, but with him still recovering, it helps to play it safe.

In the holo room, things are not going smoothly at the moment. Barbara had set the AI on a shuffle of various Gotham criminals, spawning a new enemy for Damian once he defeats the previous one. And right now, Damian just "defeated" Catwoman by throwing a sharpened birdarang through her throat, which, according to Babs's computer and basic logic, would have killed her instantly. When Dick points this out over the intercom, Damian protests.

"Anything else would have lost me the fight, Grayson!" he says, panning his view and no doubt looking for the camera that's keeping tabs on his training. "Besides, it's not real. I didn't actually kill anyone."

"You have to treat it like it's real, otherwise there's not much point," Dick says. "Isn't that how it worked in the League of Shadows, anyway?"

"In the League of Shadows, my training was real," Damian says. "Real fights, none of this simulation nonsense."

"Yeah, well we're running low on expendable ninja fanatics, so you have to make do with this." Dick grimaces as he says it, knowing he's probably brushing off something horrifying with the comment. But he's also pretty sure that Damian would hate it if he told the kid that's not normal, that's not the way we do training. It's easier – disturbingly easy, again – to just brush it off with a flippant comment, knowing Damian probably won't pay attention to what he says either way.

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth, and the simulation spawns the next opponent, and the process starts again.

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Dick feels like he's flying.

It's a cliche, but that's what they used to call it in the circus. Flying. Jumping and soaring around on trapezes or wires, free as a bird, and unless you knew how it worked, it did look like flight.

Used to call it , he thinks. Like it's already in the past. It's only been two-and-a-half weeks since he started training, and over two months since his parents died, and he already thinks of it as "used to."

It still hurts, any time he thinks about it, but he's been trying not to think about it. And it's not hard. Bruce has kept him so busy for the past weeks that he can barely think about anything that's not training.

Right now, he's swinging on a line at the very top of the Batcave, having just grappled there to avoid Bruce. He's supposed to be sparring him, but he hasn't figured out how to hit him yet.

He finally hits the floor and dodges as Bruce punches at him. He keeps his speed up – flipping forwards, spinning through the air, lands and then runs –

Whack!

Bruce kicked him while he was running, knocking him off balance! Low blow! But before he even hits the ground, Dick turns his forward momentum into a forward roll and puts some space between him and Bruce.

"Good," Bruce says. "You're very light on your feet. But you can't win the fight unless you incapacitate me. It doesn't matter if you hit me back or find another way – "

Dick sighs. This has been the end of their training for the past two weeks. They start with basic hand-to-hand techniques, just getting Dick comfortable punching or kicking, then basic strength or endurance exercises, then move on to checking your surroundings, identifying threats, how to look at a crime scene without contaminating it… and all of the day's training culminates in a fight with Bruce.

Dick hasn't been able to win one yet. He's not sure he'll be able to, ever. Bruce seems to be everywhere at once and always anticipating his moves. Out of frustration, Dick charges Bruce. Bruce steps to the side easily, and when Dick turns around and faces him, gestures for him to attack again. Dick kicks at Bruce's shin but misses when he dodges, then punches straight in his stomach. Even though he hit, it felt like punching a wall of solid muscle.

"Good," Bruce says. "But don't aim at my stomach."

"But I was trying to punch you in the stomach!"

Bruce bends down a little and grabs Dick's arm, rotating it over and going through the motion of the punch with him. "First of all, don't aim at my stomach. You have to aim behind it, so your blow goes through and actually does damage. Secondly, don't aim at my stomach . You're too small to do any damage by hitting a heavily muscled area. Stick to pressure points – "

"I can never hit those!" Dick protests. "You move too fast."

Bruce frowns at the interruption. "Or joints, knees, fingers, soft areas like kidneys, strikes to the face – but only with a fleshy area of your hand, like the hammerfist or palm heel. Until you get better, you're liable to break your knuckles if you punch someone's bony skull with a fist."

Dick sighs. It feels like there are a hundred things to remember and he's got to recall each of them in a split second when fighting.

"Do it again," Bruce says. "Remember to actually try to hit me back, and follow through on your attacks. Don't just jump around and dodge – that works when you're dodging bulletfire, but with me, you know you won't get hurt. You can improve your offensive skills…"

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"Damian, damn it, you don't have to be on the attack constantly!" Dick says through the comm, so that Damian will hear him in the Batbunker's holo-room. "Make a better plan!"

"I'm – " tchk, an exhale of breath with a blow to his enemy – "ending the fight!" Damian protests.

He is, Dick thinks as he watches Damian, dressed as Robin, fight against the various hologram combatants Babs set up. Right now, he just finished up a fight with a simulation of Electrocutioner with, according to the computers, enough force to put him in the hospital, possibly even cripple him for life.

The computer spawns Mr. Freeze, and Dick sighs. Damian is ending the fights, but he's not thinking about it like he should be. He's taking the easy way out – the harder the fight he has, the less he holds back, the more desperately he fights, and the more injured his opponent gets.

"I haven't killed any of these goons you sent at me," Damian says as he dodges an ice ray. "I'm following the stupid rules you put down!"

"The more you practice checking your blows, the easier it will get," Dick says.

Damian clicks his teeth together. He reaches for his belt and throws two batarangs at Freeze's gun. They pass harmlessly through the hologram, obviously, but Freeze still drops the gun – the simulation read that it would have worked, were he physical.

Damian rushes at Freeze and strikes him in the solar plexus and then the floating ribs. He wheels, clearly expecting to see Freeze falling to the ground, but frowns. Freeze strikes him across the face, Damian cringes from the projectile that hit him at that instant, and "Loser: Robin" pops up in a holographic projection.

Damian grunts in frustration. "It's not fair!" he says. "I hit him and nothing happened. He hit me and I lose?"

"Freeze wears advanced armor," Dick says. "He's tougher than Electrocutioner. He wouldn't have felt your blows."

"But I wasn't allowed to hit him hard – "

"You have to be adaptable, Damian," Dick says. "What will knock one person out might kill another. You always have to be conscious of it."

Damian grunts.

"But you're doing good, that was smart, disarming him," Dick adds, just so that the fight doesn't end on a complete down note. He remembers hating it when he felt like he ended a training session not having learned anything. It doesn't work, though, it just makes Damian glower at the camera, at Dick, harder, though.

"Don't condescend me," Damian says. "I lost the fight."

"Why don't you take a break and let Alfred check up on you," Dick says.

Damian scowls, but does leave the holo-room. He takes off his mask and sets it down on the table and stares up at Dick. "So you're not dressed up for training."

Dick doesn't mention that he doesn't need to practice not killing people. He's pretty sure that any insinuation he makes that he's better than Damian in some way will just end with the kid hating this more. He also doesn't mention that he's already gone out as Batman, since he figures that will just lead to Damian inviting himself on patrol before he's done healing. Instead, he says, "You're right, I could use some extra training. Maybe I'll suit up and hop in there with you."

"Tt. As you should," Damian adds. "But am I not done yet? We've been at this for three days! I haven't felt the need to resort to lethal force since day one."

Which is true. Damian's taken a loss multiple times to avoid resorting to lethal force in the arena since then. Dick's just worried it won't stick once he's no longer fighting holograms – if there's an innocent person in danger, it would make sense to Damian to use lethal force to protect the innocent person – after all, isn't a superhero supposed to protect people?

No, he really wants to see Damian using alternate problem solving strategies and winning when he'd normally have to use lethal force to do so. He figures then Damian will be ready for the field.

Alfred comes in the room with some bottles of water, a plate of what looks like Hot Pockets, and his medical bag. He deftly takes out an oximeter and blood pressure cuff and starts taking Damian's vitals.

"So far you're doing well," Alfred says.

"I told you I heal quickly," Damian says, sticking his chin up a little. Dick kind of wonders if he isn't trying to look down his nose at everyone by doing that, but the effect is lessened by him being 4'6", 4'7" tops.

"If this keeps up, you can go back in the field in a week," Alfred says. Before Damian can protest, he adds, "And I insisted this to your father as well, when it happened to him. You're not being held to any standards that he wasn't."

Dick doesn't bother mentioning that Bruce was terrible at listening to Alfred's medical advice. He figures if Damian wants to emulate his father, he's only going to tell him the things that are worth emulating.

"I'm surprised my father let you order him around," Damian says.

"Yes, well it turns out that the only authority that supersedes the World's Greatest Detective is his doctor."

Damian grimaces deeply and looks at Alfred out of the corner of his eye. "But you're his servant. Servants… serve."

"Technically he's a butler," Dick says. "Butlers buttle."

"It doesn't matter," Damian says. "Ra's Al Ghul would never allow a mere servant to boss him around."

Alfred raises an eyebrow and casts a slightly wary glance at Dick. "I'd hardly aspire to treat people the way a supervillain does," Alfred says eventually.

Damian narrows his eyes skeptically, but doesn't press the topic. He instead turns his skeptical glare to the snacks and says, "What the hell are those?"

"Hot Pockets," Dick says, and grabs one. He takes a bite, and but it doesn't taste like a Hot Pocket. More deep-fried-y, less frozen-y. "Fancy Hot Pockets," he says after swallowing.

"I assure you that I would never serve frozen food in this home," Alfred says, voice stiff in offense. "They are kaassoufflés." When he only receives questioning looks from Dick and Damian, he continues, "I felt like trying something new, expanding my culinary skills."

"They're delicious," Dick says.

"They're adequate," Damian says.

"Is there anything you might find better than adequate, Master Damian?" Alfred asks with an eyebrow raised.

"It's just food, what's it matter?" Damian asks. He quickly grabs his mask and puts it back on, then looks up at Dick. "Now get changed, Grayson! You said we could practice together!"

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Dick will never, ever admit this to anyone, but he's sick of training.

He won't admit it to Alfred because he can already tell Alfred doesn't like the idea of him trying to be Robin, of him working with Batman. He's not sure if Alfred doesn't approve because he's a kid, but Dick doesn't really see how that matters. He figures that if he's old enough to watch his parents get murdered, he's old enough to make sure it never happens to anyone else.

He won't admit it to Bruce either, because he doesn't want Bruce to think he doesn't want to do this. Of course he wants to do it! If he had, he wouldn't have been devoting the last five months to it!

But he's sick of being in the Batcave, sick of throwing birdarangs at targets and punching dummies and looking through microscopes and practicing dusting for prints and god it all sounds awful because he's going to need that, but he misses just… playing games. Flipping around on the trapeze because it was fun and not because it helped him avoid criminals.

He doesn't even realize he's been moping and frustrated on the couch until Bruce comes in and asks him what's wrong. Dick sits up and sighs. "Nothing, I'll get back to training."

He grabs his notes from the coffee table next to him to start working over the notes he'd taken over one of Bruce's lectures: How to examine a crime scene without disturbing it … He's been over it 50 times already, but Bruce drilled its essentialness into his head. He doesn't want to forget a thing.

From the corner of his vision, Dick can see Bruce making a hasty exist. Probably just popping in to make sure Dick wasn't slacking off, then. Of course.

Dick starts mentally repeating the bullet points in his head. Never move the body, he could have told you that without any official training. Note the folds in the clothing along with some handy pictures…

A shadow is cast over him, and Dick guesses that Bruce returned. Dick turns looks up to see, and there's Bruce holding a large orange ball in his hands. It's such an unexpected sight that Dick takes a moment to recognize the object, even though he's seen it loads of times before. A basketball.

"What's this about?" Dick asks.

"Training," Bruce says. "Hand-eye coordination." His eyebrows are angles slightly upwards at the edges, mouth turned a little downward, he still looks completely serious. But it's probably the closest he'll come to suggesting a break, even if he is framing a game as training, so Dick smiles.

"Okay," Dick says. "But I have to warn you, I'm pretty good at H.O.R.S.E."

"I'm not so shabby myself," Bruce says, and he cracks a smile in response.

Dick can't help but hop off the couch and race outside, already excited for the game.

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"What the hell is this?" Damian says once Dick has led him to the terrace on the penthouse roof, where he's set up a makeshift basketball basket.

Yes, he'll admit to stealing Bruce's strategies here. But it worked, didn't it? It got him to feel better and take his mind off training. Damian seems deceptively dedicated to this, wanting to go pretty much as long as Alfred will permit in his current medical condition, so he can get back into the field as soon as possible. But Dick's also pretty sure that if Damian wanted or needed a break, he'd never say so. After all, Dick didn't say so when he was training to be Robin, and he was way more of a normal kid than Damian.

"It's a training exercise," Dick says, bouncing the ball up a couple times. "The goal is to get the ball through the hoop." He steps back and demonstrates, and the ball goes through the hoop, hitting nothing but net in an incredibly satisfying whoosh.

"I can do that," Damian says, and walks over and grabs the ball, which is bouncing slightly on the ground still. He stands right underneath the basket and launches the ball straight upward. Fortunately, it goes through, because Dick was not looking forward to Damian's reaction if the thing bounced off the rim and hit him in the face.

Dick runs over and grabs the ball. "Not quite," he says.

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Why not? It went through the hoop, didn't it?"

Dick dribbles the ball a couple times, then says, "Yeah, but it has to go through the hoop in a certain way. You – "

Damian interrupts him: "You didn't say that the first time."

"Yeah, well, I'm explaining now," Dick says. "It has to go through the top of the hoop, not the bottom. See?" he shoots the ball again.

Damian watches carefully, rubbing his chin in thought, and then says, "What exactly is the point of this exercise?"

"Oh, you know," Dick says. "Hand-eye coordination."

"My hand-eye coordination is already superb. And why aren't we using something practical, like knives? We used to do an exercise like this in the League of Shadows," Damian says, speaking so fast Dick can't even get a word in edgewise to explain why they aren't using weapons. "There would be little rings or targets I had to aim the knives at. Or arrows. I'm an excellent archer. I was instructed by Merlyn, you know."

Dick has no clue how to respond to that. To be honest, he's not even sure if Damian's joking about the Merlyn thing. "That's… nice," he says finally.

"Besides, wouldn't we do better practicing throwing something harder, to better incapacitate an enemy? The parabolic arc all objects take in freefall means – "

"No!" Dick says. "No enemies! This exercise doesn't have anything to do with enemies."

Damian narrows his eyes and looks between the hoop and the ball. "So it's about precision then?" he asks. "I've done exercises like that before."

Dick nods slowly, unsure where Damian's going with this. "Sure," he says. "Anyway, so the rules are I throw the ball through the hoop" (Dick does so for a third time) "then, you throw it through the hoop in the exact same way I did, from the exact same spot I did."

Damian walks over and grabs the ball from where it bounced, then carries it over to where Dick was. "'I throw the ball through the hoop'," Damian says, mimicking Dick's voice close enough to thoroughly weird him out.

"Holy shit," Dick says.

Damian stops mid-throw to glance at Dick. "You told me to imitate you."

"Yeah, well you don't have to imitate my voice," Dick says. "Just the basketball stuff."

Damian tries. He throws the ball up, but it still goes in a straight line like he just lobbed it at a target. It hits the backboard and bounces off. Dick runs after it to make sure it doesn't wind up flying off the terrace and onto the poor Gothamites below.

"Okay," Dick says, running back. "So, that's point for me."

"But I did what you did!"

"Yeah, but it has to go through the hoop to count. Here," Dick says, chucking the ball at Damian. "Why don't you set up the position this time, and I'll imitate you."

Damian eyes the ball skeptically and throws it up and Dick realizes he probably should have taught Damian how to shoot a basket before this. Damian's using both hands, due to the awkwardly large size of the ball, rather than mostly launching it with his right and just holding it and positioning it with his left.

"Here," Dick says. "I'll teach you how to throw it."

"Tt. I already know how to throw things," Damian says. But he nods slightly, gesturing Dick forwards.

Dick holds the ball out and starts to explain, but halfway through, Damian shakes his head and asks, "Is this one of those strange civilian exercises?"

"What do you mean?"

Damian shrugs. "Civilian exercises always seem a bit contrived to me. You're not allowed to work with all of the tools at your disposal, which maybe is the point. I can see some merit in forcing yourself to develop alternate problem solving strategies…"

Dick has no clue what Damian is talking about, and he's guessing it shows on his face, because Damian says, "I'm not sheltered, you know. I've seen civilian exercises."

"Uh, right," Dick says. "What's a civilian exercise?"

"Well, I witness one in the park. A series of people gather, one of them is the pursuer and must pursue the others. Once he touches another, he becomes the pursuer and they are the pursue-ee. You can't fight him off, you can only run or dodge to avoid the touch. Combat skills don't count." He pauses, and then adds, "It's called 'tag'."

Dick laughs – not at Damian, but just because the combination of the familiar activity and utterly unfamiliar way of describing it jarred him. It still earns him a glower.

"It's not funny; I described it exactly as it happened!" Damian says.

"Yeah, I know," Dick says. "If it helps, I wasn't laughing at you. I was – "

Again, Damian looks like he wants to kill Dick.

"I know what exercise you're talking about," Dick says, attempting to be serious. "But we don't call them exercises. We call them games. You know, H.O.R.S.E., tag, velociraptors attack the president – fun stuff for kids to do."

Damian tilts his head back a little and raises his eyebrows incredulously. "I've never played such games in my childhood."

"Yeah, well I wouldn't really call your childhood typical," Dick says. "More stabbing, less sharing."

He's expecting Damian to respond back angrily, as is usual for him, or sarcastically, matching Dick's tone. But he doesn't. Damian just stops and drops the ball that then bounces at his feet, and he frowns slightly. Before it can change to any more obvious expression of sadness, he clenches his jaw and says tensely: "I know I'm not like other people my age, Grayson."

Dick notices that Damian doesn't say other children. He's not sure he's ever heard Damian refer to himself as a child. He seems to want to act and be perceived like a miniature adult.

Dick swallows, and says, "Yeah, I noticed."

Damian puts his hands on his hips and stares up at Dick in a way he can't tell if is defiance or false bravado. "I'm better than them."

Dick knows he should probably say no, he's not, your value doesn't have anything to do with how good you are at superhero or assassin stuff and other kids are just as good as you are. But for a moment, if only a moment, Damian looked as close to sad and vulnerable as he'll probably ever come, possibly because of what Dick said, that Dick can't bear to correct him. Instead, he reaches a hand out, squeezes Damian's shoulder, and says, "I guess you are."