Later that night – Dick's room:

Dick groggily opened his eyes, only to discover a room as dark as it had been with his eyes closed. There was a slight ache in his back, and an even slighter one in his left arm. He began mentally flipping through recent memories, searching for the source of both the drowsiness and the pain.

"I gave you Bat-sleep."

Bruce's recognizable voice came from Dick's left side. As the boy sat up, the lamp on his bedside table burst to life. Dick squinted then rapidly blinked, waiting for his eyes to acclimate to the change in light. Bruce was relaxing on a chair, legs stretched out in front of him and arms loosely folded across his chest.

"You kept refusing the transfusion after I took you downstairs, so I put you to sleep," the man continued.

"Why?" Dick asked, still not sure why he was sore.

"I just told you," Bruce replied.

"No, why the transfusion?"

"You needed blood," the man stated with a shrug.

"Again, why?" Dick asked, somewhat exasperated now.

"You got in a fight at school and accidentally poked your back on a fence," Bruce explained. "Then you allowed it to bleed throughout the rest of the school day. When you got home, you collapsed on the front lawn. I took you downstairs and you received blood."

Bruce intentionally skipped the argument in the Batcave and the conversation on the stairs. Dick didn't need to know that yet. Or maybe at all.

"I was…in the Batcave?!" the boy exclaimed.

"Alfred couldn't really give you a transfusion up here, could he," Bruce responded with a slight grin.

"But…but you banned me!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want me to let you bleed out on the floor?" the man asked sarcastically. "This was an exception, chum. I'm not going to allow you to die just because I banned you."

There was a long pause and then he continued.

"And I've decided to un-ban you. Both you and Alfred are right, you are an asset downstairs."

The man was now really hoping that the ten-year-old didn't remember their conversation after Dick had fled from the Batcave.

"Um, okay, thanks," Dick replied, surprise laced through the tone. "And…Robin?" he inquired meekly.

Bruce sighed. The idea of Robin wouldn't leave his mind, but neither would the image of a dead Dick Grayson.

"Okay," the boy immediately said, "I'll drop it."

"It's just that…"

Bruce trailed off, not sure how to explain what he was thinking. He was also trying to decide whether or not he should tell Dick about their conversation.

He deserves to know.

He'll give up again.

It's his choice to make.

I want to make it for him.

He's ten, he can make his own decisions. Most of the time.

Exactly. He's ten. I'm not going to put this on him.

"What are you thinking about?" Dick asked quietly, interrupting the man's thoughts.

"I…don't know," Bruce replied with another sigh.

"Um…yes, you do," Dick retorted, although there was no anger in his tone. "Don't lie to me, Bruce, just tell me. Please. Unless you don't want to tell me. But at least say, 'I don't want to tell you'."

"Well, you…we had a conversation. I don't know how to say this," the man grumbled.

"Then just spit it out. If it hurts me, it hurts me. I can deal, I've dealt with pain before."

Bruce hummed in agreement then took a deep breath.

"Yousaidyoudidnotwanttogointothebatcaveanymoreandthatyouweregivingupanythingtodowithbatman."

Dick's eyes widened in both confusion and surprise.

"I…didn't really catch that," he admitted.

There was another long pause. Bruce couldn't say it; he couldn't find the right words to help the ten-year-old understand. He needed Dick to know two things: he had given up on Batman – and, by extension Robin – and Batman wanted – no, needed – his help. The help of Dick Grayson, anyway.

Dick, meanwhile, had been running the long and somewhat incoherent sentence through his head, attempting to decipher its meaning.

"I…gave up?!" he suddenly exclaimed, understanding exploding into his brain. "Um, everything?!"

Sighing again, Bruce nodded.

"You…there's no easy way to say this, chum, so I'm just going to come out with it. You said you were tired of everything, tired of having your emotions toyed with, tired of giving your heart away only to have it crushed again, tired of trying to please everybody while feeling like you were failing all the time, tired of…yes, everything."

"Oh."

Bruce waited, but Dick didn't continue. The silence was long and awkward, but the man decided to let the boy take the lead. But the ten-year-old, surprisingly, didn't. He just sat there on his bed, staring at his hands, completely motionless.

Bruce waited, and waited, and waited until he couldn't anymore. It had been almost five minutes.

"Don't you have anything else to say?" he asked carefully, apprehension dancing throughout his voice.

Dick lifted his head, and Bruce immediately saw the tracks on the boy's cheeks and the glistening tears sliding over the lower lids of his expressive eyes.

"I…don't want to," Dick finally replied softly. "I don't want to give up. Please don't make me give everything up."

Bruce was instantly by his side, sitting on the bed and pulling the ten-year-old into a hug.

"I'm not making you give it up," the man stated, his voice equally quiet.

He wanted to add the word 'ever', but didn't want to make a promise he might not be able to keep.

"You're not banned anymore," he continued. "I'm allowing you to help Alfred in the Batcave."

There was no verbal answer, just the increased shaking of the small body as his emotions poured out of him.

"It's okay, kiddo, everything is going to be okay," Bruce reassured him gently. "And I'll…think about Robin. When you're much older," he quickly clarified. "And stronger, of course, and have had training, of course, and know…"

"You're going to think about Robin?!" Dick interrupted, his muffled exclamation full of shock.

"When you're much older," Bruce re-stated.

The ten-year-old lifted his head and scrutinized his guardian. His look was so intense that Bruce felt like the boy was staring into his very soul.

"What…why are you…" he began.

"I'm searching your eyes," Dick explained, his intense gaze never wavering. "I'm looking for any hint of dishonesty, because you can't just expect me to believe that you're going to think about Robin when you've been so adamantly against him ever since I brought him up."

"That's a good point," Bruce admitted, patiently waiting for his boy to finish his thorough examination.

"I know," Dick replied simply.

Bruce chuckled, then sobered when the boy raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry," the man stated, not quite sure why he was apologizing to a ten-year-old boy and actually meaning it.

Dick finally blinked, satisfied with what he had found, and pulled out of the hug.

"Okay," he said, "you'll think about it.

Nodding, Bruce said, "And now it's time for you to go back to sleep. It's almost ten o'clock, and you're a growing boy."

He stood up, moving out of the way so Dick could lie down.

"Night, Bruce," Dick said sleepily, already closing his eyes.

"Good night, kiddo," Bruce replied softly, brushing the dark hair off the boy's face. "Sleep well, chum."

Dick snuggled under the covers, and Bruce smiled down at him. Wondering, for what seemed like the hundredth time, how he had been lucky enough to meet this extraordinary child, the man turned around and left the room.

Three weeks later:

"He's bored, Master Bruce."

"But he's helping! How can he be bored?!"

"Have you ever sat by the Bat-computer, night after night, doing 'busy work', sir?"

"No. I'm Batman."

"I'm well aware of your identity, Master Bruce. You need to find something else for Master Dick to do. He's bored, sir."

Alfred and Bruce were in the kitchen, talking while the former prepared dinner. Dick was at school, there was no chance of him overhearing anything, so the men were being frank with each other.

"Sir," Alfred said with a sigh, "he comes home, does his homework, and goes directly to the gym. I would much prefer you train him than he learn incorrect techniques by attempting to train himself."

"No," Bruce answered firmly. "He's not going to become Robin."

"You told him 'much older', Master Bruce."

"That's far away!" the younger man exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, sir, would you prefer him to be an eighteen-year-old crime-fighter with appalling technique because you refused to teach him when he was young and malleable? Because that's where he's headed right now, Master Bruce."

"Alfred, I…"

"Master Bruce," the butler uncharacteristically interrupted, "may I remind you that he is ten. Something he learns incorrectly at ten and practices for however long it takes for you to 'think' about Robin will not be easily fixed."

"Alfred, I…"

"May I also remind you, sir, that there is a threat at Master Dick's school? Small, yes, but still there."

"Dick can take care of Jimmy," Bruce stated confidently.

"Much as he did last time, sir," Alfred murmured.

"The kid had a bunch of friends with him last time!" the younger man retorted.

"So you assume he will no longer use those friends if there is an altercation," the older man replied, his voice incredulous. "Sir," he added, somewhat as an afterthought.

"Alfred, I…" Bruce started again but then paused.

The silence stretched on. Alfred finished basting the chicken, put it in the oven, and waited patiently.

"You're…right," Bruce finally admitted. "He needs to know how to defend himself."

"I know how to defend myself!"

The indignant exclamation startled both men and they turned around. Dick was standing in the doorway, hands on his hips and scowling. The eyes of both men shot to the clock – 3:17.

"Do you even remember how many fights I've been in during the past three months?!"

Bruce glanced at Alfred, who raised his eyebrows then turned away to continue preparing dinner. The younger man glared at the older man's back before returning his attention to the ten-year-old.

"Yes, chum, of course I do. And you're right, you do know how to defend yourself…"

"I beat Scarecrow, and some henchmen, and three full-grown men, and Jimmy…"

"You were lucky, you were cleaning up for me, you were lucky again, and you were lucky again."

"But…"

"No, Dick, just stop. Alfred and I have been discussing something. I need to start training you again. I told you I would think about Robin…"

Dick mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'in my dreams' and Bruce frowned. He ignored the jibe, however, and continued.

"…and if you want to become Robin when you are much older then I need you to know correct fighting techniques. And you can't learn those on your own. Which means I need to teach you."

The scowl disappeared and Dick's expressive eyes lit up. Small streaks of doubt dashed through the light-blue, and Bruce immediately noticed.

"Do you want to go downstairs now?" the man asked. "I need to see what you remember and what you've tried to teach yourself."

"Homework, Master Bruce," Alfred stated quietly, his back still to them.

Bruce almost rolled his eyes but Dick dropped to the floor and began fishing through his backpack. Out came a small folder, a pencil, and a page of notes. Ten minutes later, Bruce was sitting on the floor reading the rough draft of a five-paragraph essay and Dick was standing up again, impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"You're a pretty good writer, kiddo," the man commented.

"I'm okay," the boy replied. "But I don't need to write to train!"

Bruce chuckled and Dick grabbed the paper.

"Master Dick," Alfred warned as he opened the oven to check the chicken.

With a silent and dramatic sigh, Dick carefully put the paper in his folder instead of shoving it in like he had been about to do. He returned the folder to his backpack and zipped it up.

Alfred glanced back, nodded, and Dick grabbed Bruce's hand.

"Let's go!" he shouted exuberantly as he tried to pull the man to his feet.

Downstairs they went. Bruce, wanting to know exactly how much his boy remembered, began with defense. Dick showed him everything the man had taught him, and Bruce was impressed. His technique was just as near-flawless as it had been before Batman had stopped training him.

Then Dick showed him what he had been teaching himself, and Bruce now knew why Alfred was concerned. Almost everything was sloppy, or there was no follow-through, or the footing was wrong, or…

Bruce internally sighed and admitted Alfred had been right. Again. Batman would never allow even an adult Dick to fight crime with this technique.

"Let's…start at the beginning," Bruce said, trying to spare the boy's feelings by not outright criticizing everything.

"I'm not good," Dick stated. "I know that, you don't have to try to be careful about what you say. I've…kind of lost a lot of…I just haven't been practicing as much and offense is harder and I'm sorry."

"There's no reason to apologize, chum. Things have a way of disappearing if we don't practice. So, let's practice."

An hour later, Alfred called them up for dinner. Both the man and the boy were sweating, and Dick knew he was going to be sore tomorrow. His muscles, although athletic, were not used to the type of exercises that Bruce had just put them through.

"Good heavens, Master Bruce, what have you done to the poor boy?!" Alfred exclaimed. "You both need to wash up before entering the dining room. I will not have sweat dripping onto my chicken, sir."

They nodded and went upstairs, side by side. Alfred smiled when Dick slid his small hand into Bruce's much larger one. The butler's smile grew when Bruce's hand closed protectively around the much smaller one. Humming softly, Alfred returned to the kitchen to ensure dinner didn't get cold before his boys came down to eat it.