Robin
"And now my demon – my black-eyed, brilliant, willful angel – has grown to manhood. And in his hubris, he has chosen a protégé. An innocent young boy. I pray this child will survive this. I pray my master has not gone mad." – Alfred, All-Star Batman and Robin the Boy Wonder #5 (Frank Miller)
"Do you think he hates him?"
Alfred Pennyworth looked up wearily from where he was dusting a silver ornament.
"Does whom hate whom, sir?"
"The boy. The little kid."
"The one sitting upstairs all by himself?" Alfred's tone was rather icy as he looked as his employer's broad, black-sheathed back. "I could not assume that, Master Bruce. I don't know if he feels hatred. But I should think…" He paused, thinking to choose carefully how he said the next part – but then he decided not to mince words; "…that he is lonely, more so."
"That's not what I asked, Alfred." Bruce Wayne, with his cowl down, looked over his shoulder at the butler. "I asked do you think he hates… Zucco?"
"And I replied that I don't know," Alfred replied snippily, returning to his dusting. "Why don't you ask him yourself? That will solve both our problems."
"And what is your problem, Alfred?"
"The fact, sir, that you've left that little boy up there all by himself, and after what he's been through…"
"You know I'm not good with children."
"Then why bring him home with you, for heaven's sake?" Alfred asked coldly.
"Because…" Even the almighty Batman had no answer for this, and fell silent.
"Because you saw yourself in him," Alfred finished for him. "He's going through exactly what you did, but… Dear heavens, Master Bruce, do you think that automatically makes him your property? Did you take him simply because you felt that no-one else could have him, because no-one else but you can understand…?"
"Oh, god, Alfred… no." Bruce massaged his temples. "He says he saw Zucco threaten Haley; they might come after him, finish off the whole family. Don't you agree he's safer here, with me?"
"Yes, sir, but I feel that that is not your only motive."
Bruce shrugged his powerful shoulders.
"And what are you going to do with him?" Alfred asked. "He's not a thing, Master Bruce – you can't just keep him here until you get tired of him, then shunt him off back to the Welfare Office—"
"Alright, so I didn't think it through!" Bruce snapped, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. "I don't know, Alfred. I don't know what I'm going to do with him. There's room enough for him here, but I… I don't know the first thing about children. I couldn't raise him, he'd turn out like…"
"…You?" Alfred rolled his eyes. "Well, whatever you plan on doing with him, I suggest that you go up right now and make an effort to talk to him. Perhaps, sir… you are the only one capable of understanding. Good with children or not, that must count for something…"
Another slice of chill silence.
"Yes." Bruce got up, sinew and smooth, hard muscle flowing and ebbing beneath the material of his uniform; his black cloak swathing him like the wings of a black, black angel. "Yes, I suppose it must…"
—
Perhaps it was fool of him to come into the main house in full uniform, and it wasn't something he did extensively or habitually; but it was easier to make his wild stormy promises while dressed like this.
He stood in the doorway of the drawing room, as Alfred had done; and watched the boy sitting on the windowsill, as he had done. No storm tonight; but the sky was heavy and dark and grim.
That wasn't the only difference – in the silence of the huge room, Bruce could hear the quiet sniffles. Not all-out, heart-wrenching sobs and wails of despair; just stifled sobs, and the glint of tears on his cheeks.
Bruce hadn't cried; his eyes had burned, and his throat had ached, but he hadn't cried.
He remembered that feeling himself; sitting there on that sill in the dark, with his back to a large empty room, yearning for the loving arms of his father or mother or both to slip around his shoulders and hug him tightly, whisper in his ear it would all be okay.
Something which never came. Yes, there was Alfred – and he owed Alfred so much. But Alfred wasn't his parents.
Bruce moved up behind him, as Alfred had done to him; in the window, the boy started at the sudden appearance of his looming, demonic reflection, then bent his head again.
Bruce couldn't sit next to him – not because he was indifferent, but because he was Batman. And okay, the kid knew by now that Bruce Wayne and Batman were the same person physically, but that didn't really count for anything anymore.
"I know how hard it is," he said eventually. "I know how much it hurts."
The kid nodded his head, his shoulders shaking.
"Well…" Bruce gingerly put a hand on the boy's small shoulder. "…You aren't alone."
"Yes, sir." The boy's voice was quiet and wavering. "Have… h-have you…?"
"Found Zucco?" Bruce finished. "Not yet. He's covered his tracks…"
The boy gave a deep, pained sigh. And then, finally;
"Is it… wrong to… hate him?"
With all the wisdom of a fool, Bruce did not think long and hard about his answer:
"No. It isn't wrong to hate evil-doers. That's why… I'm here, anyway."
"I… I just want to… see him locked up, and…"
"Yes." Bruce paused, weighing up a daring thought. "You… perhaps, kid, I can… help you…"
The boy finally turned to him, with eyes as blue and clear as the summer sky.
"How…?"
"Well, I…" Bruce rubbed at his aching forehead. "What's your name…?"
"Dick, sir. Dick Grayson."
"Yes, of course it is. I'm sorry, it just slipped… no matter…"
"How can you help me?" Dick pleaded, grasping Bruce's long silken cape in shaking fingers.
"First, tell me only this." Bruce extended a hand outwards; and he drew himself up to his full height, and the shadows flared and danced across the whole of his black angelic form. "…Are you afraid?"
Of me? was the silent part.
Dick Grayson looked at the hand for a moment or two; and then, finally, placed his own small, quivering one into it.
To seal the deal.
"No, sir," he whispered. "I'm not."
The Batman smiled then, and said;
"Well, that's a start."
"Swear that you will fight against crime and corruption, and never swerve from the path of justice!"
"I swear it!" – Batman and Dick; The Untold Legend of the Batman Vol. 1, Issue 2(1980) (Len Wein)
Bruce's eyes are dark – Dick's are not, and the candle flame dances in them as he watches Batman remove the lighter and his hand.
"You… are sure about this, aren't you, Dick?" Batman asks softly, watching the boy nibble nervously at his bottom lip.
"Oh. Yes." His blue eyes slide from the flame to Batman and then back again. "Yes."
"Because…" Batman gently places a hand on his small shoulder. "…I've trained you and taught you, but… you mustn't feel obliged because of it. Once you choose this path, there's no turning back."
"I know." Dick's eyes are clear and full of understanding. "But I want this. I want to do it."
"Well…" Batman removes his hand and steps back from him with a swish and sway of material. "That's good. I'm glad."
Dick blinks at him.
"I… I'm ready."
Batman nods silently; and the boy raises his hand in front of the candle and speaks the passage from the Bible of Batman. And as he speaks, rattling it off from a sharp memory that Bruce Wayne admires, the Batman smiles to himself, and agrees.
Yes, I think you are ready… Robin.
"You know, Robins… the mask makes me feel cool too." – Robin; The Quest
Frankly, it's suicide.
He takes a running leap and he – okay, get this – actually leaps headlong off the roof of the Gotham Gazette offices.
So what do you do?
Follow him; like you're attached to him with a piece of elastic. He jumps – you jump. He fires his grapple; so do you. Lucky boy, that he sets a good example. Otherwise you'd both be Bat-meat down there on the sidewalk.
It's your first night, and, well… we wouldn't want that now, would we?
The night air is ice-touched on your face as it whips past you; and the chill opal moon rides in the inky sky; there are stars, but they're hard to see, because Gotham is, quite honestly, filthy. There are other, much cleaner cities, where you can see the stars at night.
Maybe you'll see them one day. Both the other cities, and the stars.
It's an exhilaration that fills you as the concrete of the pavement rushes towards you at a frightening speed – but how can anyone explain the dangers to you, when you were trained as an acrobat?
He pulls on his jump line – specially manufactured, plenty of give – and swerves up and away from the street, his cloak whipping behind him with an ethereal liquid grace. You copy him, mirror-image, tug at the exact right angle at the exact right time with the exact right muscle in your arm; and then you're soaring up with him.
Heh – Superman, you ain't all that…
Batman swings into a landing on the roof of Wayne Enterprises – it's one of the tallest buildings in the city and he can get good view of what's going on from up here. You land lightly beside him, but your gaze isn't on the macabre sprawling metropolis stretched below. The big letters that spell out "WAYNE" are neon-bright and vaguely mirror-like, and are perfect for you to check out your reflection in.
He gave it to you tonight; and it's perfect. It fits in every single way, and it makes you feel so cool. Okay, so the pants are kind of short, and the pixie boots aren't going to do much damage, and it's so bright; but what other kid your age gets to dress like this and hang out with the Batman?
The mask makes you feel kind of cool, too.
—
Eventually, Batman tracks down some action; two punks in navy balaclavas, pulling an alarm-squealing heist on the First Gotham City Bank. They have guns; but Batman sends a batarang whirling in their direction, knocking one of the guns out of its owner's possession. There's a muffled expletive – and then the hoods begin to panic, because they know…
"He's here!"
"Shit… Bill… okay, Bill… j-just grab what you can and run for it!"
"Take the one I just disarmed," Batman mutters to you, as you descend like birds of prey from your high shadowed realm. "The other is mine."
You nod; and separate from him for the first time. He's only a few meters away, pummeling the snot out of the armed guy with precise punch after punch, but you are separated from him.
The other guy screeches to a halt as you land in front of him. And his eyes widen like saucers, and he stares at you.
"What the hell?!" He demands eventually, brandishing his hands at you incredulously. "Who are you supposed to be?!"
Which, of course, leaves him wide open; your boot sinks into his solar plexus, your elbow meets his jaw, and as he stumbles backwards and curses, you spring into a light, fluid cartwheel, kick him squarely in the chest and send him to the ground.
He groans; but he's not a particularly stellar or durable crook, and he doesn't get up again. He does glare up at you, though – at this little boy in traffic light clothes, demanding an answer from you.
"Robin," you say. "I'm Robin, the Boy Wonder."
And then you smile at him, with a certain pride that maybe, from this moment on, will never leave you; and add, as an afterthought;
"Remember it."
Thankyou to my 7 reviewers: YamiTai, Jumpstarter, AlsoSprachOdin, Guardian of Azarath, Seductive Angel, LoopyLouise123, and Jordancatgirl7. Always appreciated, guys, and I hope you enjoy the rest!
- RobinRocks xXx