It was his fault; it was always his fault. Stupid mistakes, bad miscalculations, jumping in before completely evaluating the situation, impulsive decisions. They all led to moments like this. Well, not exactly like this, but that was beside the point. All because Robin had raced to save the day without caring about the movements in the shadows. At least the innocent citizen had been able to escape.
But now Robin was caught between two henchmen. One was currently tying the hero's wrists together behind his back while the other held a gun against his forehead, ensuring complete compliance. For the moment. Batman, meanwhile, was lying unconscious on the floor about ten feet away. Another henchman was working on restraining the older hero, and a younger goon was pointing a gun at Batman's head in case the man was playing possum.
Robin internally chuckled. The younger kid was obviously new, because no henchman worth his salt would be trembling and sweating and gulping nervously while doing absolutely nothing.
"First time holding a gun?" the fourteen-year-old hero asked the boy, who was probably only a year or two younger than Robin himself.
"Shut up," the man behind Robin commanded.
"You look nervous, do you think Batman's awake? Maybe he's tricking you. He could break your arm…"
"Shut up," the man stated again, tightening the knot enough that the rope was already chafing the boy's skin.
The comment made the man in front of Robin push the barrel of the gun harder against his forehead.
"Try not to leave a mark," Robin quipped cheekily, grimacing when that comment increased the pressure yet again.
"Keep your mouth shut or I'll do it for you. I have no problem shooting a teenager."
"You're not going to kill me," Robin stated logically, "because you're obviously taking orders from somebody else. Otherwise, you would have killed me right away."
"Didn't say I'd kill you, said I'd shut your mouth for you. Lots of ways to do that without killing you."
"For example…" Robin encouraged.
"You're cruising for a bruising, kid," the man on the ground warned as he finished tying Batman's ankles together. "Better watch your mouth."
A shot rang out, one that didn't slam point blank into his forehead. It took Robin a moment to realize that there was now a bullet in his left thigh, just high enough that it hadn't shattered his kneecap - a good piece of luck. His light-blue eyes moved from the face of the man in front of him to the shocked expression on the face of the kid who was now holding a smoking gun.
"Riley, you didn't have to shoot him," the man behind Robin grumbled.
Having finished the big knot, the man walked around the young hero and strode over to where Riley was standing stock still. Carefully, he lifted his hand and gently removed the shaking gun from the boy's trembling hand.
"Sor…sorry," Riley muttered, his eyes glued to the blood oozing out of the wound in Robin's leg.
"Judd, get your gun away from the kid's head and take him to the table," the man commanded, flicking his head to the right. "Mitch, that's good enough, the Bat's out cold," he stated, glancing at the man on the floor. "Riley, go get some water," he finished with a sigh.
Giving the youngest henchman a gentle nudge, the man who was seemingly in charge put Riley's gun in his back pocket. Riley walked out of Robin's line of vision as the fourteen-year-old was steered toward a small table in the center of the room.
The movement of his leg made the hole in his thigh begin to burn. The flame spread from the wound to his entire quadricep as he limped across the floor. When they made it to the table, the flame became a full-fledged bonfire as Robin was forced to kneel in front of the square of wood. Robin had no doubt that he would soon be kneeling in a puddle of his own fresh blood.
Judd held Robin in place while Mitch, who had arrived at the same time, pushed the table flush against the teenager's thighs. The man in charge appeared with more rope, and two minutes later Robin's legs were firmly attached to the sturdy legs of the table.
Robin sighed as his nose bumped into the edge of the table. One of the cons of being small – the table was almost taller than the boy was while on his knees. Only his forehead and eyes made it over the lip of wood, while his nose was pressed against it. That problem was fixed when Judd grabbed a clump of hair and pulled, forcing Robin's head back so he was now staring at the ceiling.
A hint of panic began dancing around his brain when another rope was wrapped around his neck. There was some tugging and pulling and, when it was over, his neck was attached to his wrists via a short length of rope. Robin's flexible back was already protesting the position, his injured thigh was begging for relief, and every breath felt like a fistful of nails sliding down his throat.
He heard movement behind him, and suddenly the gun was against his forehead again.
"Get your gun off his head or I will do it for you the hard way."
Batman's gruff voice was music to Robin's ears. The younger had hoped the older was feigning unconsciousness, and he had been correct. Or, Batman was just really good at quietly getting out of restraints. Better, in fact, than Robin had even known.
"Get your legs off my boy's neck or your boy gets a bullet in the brain," Judd snarled, pushing the gun harder against Robin's skull. "I don't mind killing a kid, but I know the famous Batman doesn't kill. And my bullet will kill faster than you trying to strangle my boy with your legs anyway."
So, Batman was still restrained, but had somehow captured Riley. Robin had no idea how that could have happened, but it wasn't worth trying to figure out. The fact that Judd now had a twitchy trigger finger took priority at the moment.
There was a scuffling sound, some grunts of pain, and then Judd took his gun off of Robin's forehead. A quiet sigh of relief was cut short when the man shoved the barrel into the fourteen-year-old's left bicep and pulled the trigger. The flame seemed hotter when the bullet went in point blank, and Robin couldn't stop the yelp of pain.
"Do anything like that again and I'll add a hole to his other shoulder," Judd snapped, pushing his gun against Robin's temple again.
Robin's head tilted back a little more in order to accept the pressure of the gun, causing his breathing to become almost non-existent. The fourteen-year-old knew that if Batman didn't free himself soon, there would be no Boy Wonder for the Caped Crusader to rescue.
"Desculpe," Batman growled.
Robin squeezed his eyes shut and tried to prepare himself for more pain. He was more fluent in Spanish than Portuguese, but the word was almost exactly the same. Batman had said 'sorry' in advance, because Robin was going to have to be shot again so Batman could free himself. But being shot was better than choking to death, so the younger hero silently agreed to accept the inevitable agony.
More movement, more grunts, and then a bullet in his other bicep. Somehow it hurt even more than the first two combined. Perhaps the stress on his neck and shoulders was part of the reason, the fourteen-year-old mused as he drifted in and out of the lazy clouds wandering in his mind.
"The next one goes in his head," Judd threatened menacingly, pushing the barrel against Robin's temple for the fourth time.
"Ti fidi di me?"
Wondering why Batman had suddenly switched to Italian, Robin grunted in what he hoped sounded like an affirmative. Why was Batman asking if Robin trusted him? Was the man going crazy? Of course he trusted his older, and much more experienced, partner!
"Isso pode doer."
Might?!
Robin wondered what could hurt more than three bullets in his body with his neck stretched to its breaking point and a gun without a doubt leaving a bruise on his forehead and all the oxygen in the room beginning to fly away from his grasp. The thought didn't last long, because Judd muttered something and Robin's world went dark.
A scraping sound awakened Batman's senses. He kept his eyes closed, hoping for clues about his circumstances before showing his captors that he was awake. Arms tied behind his back, normal. Ankles tied together, not unusual. Lying on a hard floor, familiar.
Slowly, Batman lifted his lids. There was a kid directly in his line of sight, maybe fifteen feet away, holding a glass and chugging whatever was in it. He was shaking like a leaf in a strong wind, and he kept glancing from his drink to something on his right.
Batman just as slowly adjusted his head so he could see what the boy found so interesting. He almost didn't stop the angry growl that wanted to fly out of his mouth when he discovered the scene. Robin, whose back was to him, was on his knees. The boy was attached to the legs of a table with rope, and a man was just finishing a knot on his wrists. Then the man stepped away, and Batman immediately sat up.
Robin's neck was pushed back into a position that it wouldn't accept for long. And the man had forced immobility by tying the rope to the restraints around the boy's wrists - effectively beginning to slowly strangle the younger hero.
Something hit him softly on the shoulder, and Batman's attention shifted as he tilted sideways. The boy who had been observing the scene had just tried to tackle him. Batman almost laughed as he laid on his back, flipped the kid underneath him, and closed his knees around the scrawny neck.
Looking in Robin's direction, Batman snapped, "Get your gun off his head or I will do it for you the hard way."
The man, whoever he was, replied, "Get your legs off my boy's neck or your boy gets a bullet in the brain. I don't mind killing a kid, but I know the famous Batman doesn't kill. And my bullet will kill faster than you trying to strangle my boy with your legs anyway."
Batman allowed the struggling boy to get out of his choke hold. As soon as the kid was free, however, Batman kicked him in the head, knocking him out. A shot rang out, Robin yelped, and Batman saw blood sliding down his partner's left arm.
"Do anything like that again and I'll add a hole to his other shoulder," the man snapped as he pushed his gun against Robin's temple.
Batman clenched his jaw in anger when he saw the boy's head tilt down even farther and heard the quiet wheeze of distress that escaped his young partner's mouth.
"Desculpe," Batman growled, hoping Robin wasn't too out of it to understand while also hoping that none of the men in the room spoke Portuguese.
In order to get free of his restraints, Batman was going to have to take care of the man that was now crouching in front of him, which meant that Robin was about to get shot in his other shoulder. The henchman leaned forward, his hands ready to close around Batman's neck.
Never lean while in a crouch.
Batman almost laughed again at the incompetence being displayed by these wannabe-criminals. He quickly rolled out of the man's reach, causing the man to land awkwardly on his hands. The Caped Crusader heard the nearly-inaudible 'snap' of something being torn apart. Just as quickly as before, he rolled back, crushing the man's now-injured wrist. There was a gasp of pain and then the sound of bone hitting bone as Batman swiftly sat up and slammed his head into that of the man beside him. The criminal crumpled into a pile of flesh as the hero flipped open a pocket in his utility belt. Out came his Bat-knife, and he began working on the ropes around his wrists followed by those around his ankles.
He expected the next sound – the bullet as it slammed into Robin's other shoulder. Batman glanced at his partner before glaring at the man standing over his son. Robin looked dazed, a result of both the pain and the stress of his body position.
"The next one goes in his head," the man warned, shoving the barrel of his gun against Robin's forehead.
There was one more man to get rid of before he could go after the shooter. Batman didn't want Robin to fall asleep, so he switched languages, hoping it would force the boy's brain to stay awake in order to translate.
"Ti fidi di me?" he asked, deciding to at least stay in the same language family.
Robin quietly grunted and Batman took that to mean yes. He switched languages again, because a grunt was close to a mumble, which was close to no sound at all.
"Isso pode doer."
This might hurt, chum.
In a move that nobody would ever believe he could do, and one he would never be able to replicate, Batman went from sitting to kneeling to standing in one smooth motion. The final man was startled enough to momentarily pause, and the Caped Crusader took advantage of it.
Having already freed his hands, it was a quick takedown. A punch to the frozen man's face while simultaneously pulling a Bat-a-rang out of another pocket in his utility belt. The man dropped like a sack of potatoes and the Bat-a-rang was flying through the air before the man with the gun could properly react.
His aim, as usual, was perfect. The weapon sliced across the back of the man's hand, who muttered something unintelligible as a thin line of blood appeared. Batman knew he wouldn't get there in time to stop the chain reaction, but he ran anyway.
Judd had automatically clutched his injured hand, which caused him to drop the gun that he had just moved away from Robin's forehead in order to point it at Batman. The falling gun hit Robin's hairline, knocking him out and sending a trickle of blood sliding down the left side of his face. It rolled over his head, hit the floor, and skittered away.
Batman arrived just as Judd crouched down and grabbed the rope that was attaching Robin's neck to his wrists.
"He can die just as easily this way," the man snarled as he gently tugged, making Robin's head slightly bounce like a puppet on a string. "Back off. NOW!"
Batman didn't move, so the man yanked on the rope. That gave the hero the opportunity he needed, although he also knew it was going to give Robin one heck of a headache in the morning. The man's fingers were suddenly bloody, and he gasped in pain as he pulled them away from the rope which had just been sliced in half by a quick strike from a Bat-knife.
Robin's body had been frozen in the backward position for too long. It hung there in mid-air, supported by nothing except the legs of the table. Batman muttered another 'sorry' as he pushed the boy up so he could grab the criminal before the man could flee. He easily dispatched the goon, then put his extremely useful Bat-knife to even better use.
Robin's hands were quickly freed, then Batman sliced apart the rope restraining his legs to the table. With no support at all now, the Boy Wonder's body crumpled toward the ground. Batman caught him and gently laid him down for evaluation.
A bullet hole in each arm, immediately tightly wrapped up before moving on. A bloody injury on the left leg. Batman pulled a Bat-towel out and wiped the blood away. It was another bullet wound, and Batman wondered why he hadn't woken up when Robin had been shot. A shallow slice at his hairline, not deep enough to need stitches, not even deep enough to send more than the small trickle of blood that had appeared on impact.
There was going to be a headache and a neckache and a backache, but those could be resolved by applying ice and heat when necessary. And that's when he noticed the blue tint on Robin's lips, which led him to realize that his partner's breathing was more like a rapid wheeze, and the young body was coated in a layer of sweat.
A swear word slid out of his mouth, and Batman berated himself for not paying better attention to the small details. Robin's oxygen had been cut off when the man had yanked on the rope, and the fourteen-year-old was on the edge of hypoxia. Batman had incorrectly assumed that the lack of oxygen had been too brief to cause anything other than a missed breath. The bullet wounds had taken priority, but ignoring the unusual pattern of Robin's breathing was a serious mistake.
"Stay with me, kiddo," the hero whispered as he scooped up his son.
There was a door ten yards to his left, and it led into the bright sunlight. Batman was relieved that they hadn't been moved after being knocked unconscious, because it meant that the Batmobile was around the corner. Three minutes later, they were buckled in and heading for the Batcave.
Thanks for letting me use it.
I will always give you what you need.
Should I replace the mask now?
No, you look exhausted. Let's get you to bed, and then I'll take care of it.
A conversation from four days ago ran through Batman's mind. Robin had been breathing heavily on the drive home after a hard-fought battle, and Batman had allowed him to use the portable Bat-oxygen mask and tank. And then Batman had not replaced it. Which meant that now, the time when Robin really needed the Bat-oxygen, there was neither a mask nor a tank in the Batmobile.
Mentally swearing at himself again, Batman opened his Bat-communicator and explained the situation to Alfred. The butler hummed in disappointment before signing off to prepare for their arrival. The sound brought out a feeling that Batman hadn't felt in a long time – discouragement.
And that feeling brought an image into his mind. The expression on Robin's face whenever he messed up. It didn't matter if it was something small or big, that expression would immediately appear when Batman would begin lecturing him about it. Discouragement, yes, but there was always a hint of shame mixed in.
If this hollow feeling in Batman's chest was how Robin felt after every mistake, it was amazing that the boy hadn't gone numb with despair. Especially since his emotions were expressed so vibrantly and demonstratively.
"Desculpe," Batman murmured as he glanced at the fourteen-year-old.
Robin's lips had more than a tint of blue, and his rapid wheezing had slowed down into slight gasps with too much time in between them. Batman slammed his foot down on the accelerator, ignored red lights and pedestrians and speed limit signs, and parked in the Batcave less than five minutes later.
Alfred, instead of waiting in the medical area, was holding the portable equipment and standing next to the passenger side of the platform. He quickly and efficiently hooked Robin up, then allowed Batman to carry the boy to a table. Less than an hour later, the butler was done pulling out bullets, cleaning away blood, and stitching skin back together. Robin was easily breathing on his own; the oxygen mask had been removed after only twenty minutes.
"He's fine, right?" Bruce asked, the unusual sound of insecurity in his voice.
"Yes, sir, he will be fine. Master Dick will have several large aches tomorrow, but that will just require rest and time to heal."
Alfred paused, taking in the younger man's expression and pondering the abnormal tone in his voice.
"Would you like to talk about it, Master Bruce, or is this another feeling you are going to bottle up and try but fail to deal with on your own?"
Bruce had nothing to say to that, so he sidestepped it by asking another question.
"Why isn't he awake? The rope was only pulled once for five seconds at the most."
"Cuz I'm tired," came the mumbled answer from below them. "Tell Alf, but go som'ere else."
Alfred nearly smirked. Even half-asleep the boy could hear the emotion through the stoic façade that Batman attempted to put up. The one that Bruce was trying to use on Alfred, which also never worked because Alfred knew everything. Almost.
Silence descended for a full minute. Dick finally sighed and opened his eyes.
"What part of this are you blaming on yourself?" the fourteen-year-old asked.
"I…"
"None of it is on you, Bruce," Dick immediately interrupted. "I ignored what I knew were henchmen in the shadows because I took the easy way out. The girl went free but I got us caught. It's my fault again, and I'm sorry."
And there it was. The expression that had appeared in Batman's mind only an hour ago was now manifested on Dick's young face. Discouragement and shame and, this time, a hint of sorrow. Suddenly, Bruce realized something.
Robin was continually beating himself up for even the tiniest of mistakes. And Batman hadn't seen it because Batman had been too busy lecturing him about those mistakes. So Robin was getting a double beat-down every time he did something wrong.
"How do you do it?" Bruce asked, causing Dick to look at him quizzically. "How do you take critiques from both myself and yourself every time something bad happens," he elaborated, "and still come out positive the next morning?"
"I…don't know what you mean," Dick answered vaguely.
"You just told me you are to blame for everything that happened tonight. If you had been conscious when we left, I probably would have taught you a lesson…"
"…lectured me," Dick breathed quietly.
"…on the way home," Bruce finished. "Yet tomorrow morning you would come down to breakfast with a smile on your face, as if nothing had happened. How do you do it?"
Dick slowly, with the helping hands of Alfred, sat up.
"I don't do that," he denied.
"Alfred," Bruce declared.
The butler nodded his head in agreement.
"He speaks the truth, Master Dick. You are rarely happy after a mistake during patrol – and I would not expect you to be – but you are as happy in the morning as you are when no mistakes are made."
Dick gently rolled his neck around a few times in an attempt to avoid answering. He was going to be one big ache tomorrow, he had no doubts about that.
"Dick."
The commanding tone he could never disobey. Both Bruce and Batman used it when they wanted an answer that either Dick or Robin was very unwilling to give. It was useless to try to resist.
"Because I'm supposed to be the happy one," he said quietly, dropping his eyes to the ground. "Batman is the stoic one, Alfred is the proper one, and I'm supposed to be the happy one."
Both men were shocked into silence. Dick was allowing himself to be lectured by Bruce, then lecturing himself, then pretending everything was fine because he thought they thought he should be happy all the time?
"Where do you put all those feelings, Master Dick?" Alfred softly inquired.
Silence.
"Don't bottle them up, Dick, it's not good for you. Look what it's done for me," Bruce said lamely with a self-deprecating half-grin.
Silence.
"Dick."
That tone he couldn't resist was used again, so Dick continued, "I don't know…what do you want me to say?!"
Bruce dropped onto the nearest chair.
"Look at me, chum."
Dick refused, because he didn't want Bruce to see the shame in his eyes. He didn't know how to answer the question, because he didn't know how he did it. He only knew he had to do it, so that everyone else wouldn't have to worry about him.
"Dick, look at me."
"No," the boy finally whispered.
Bruce looked at Alfred, who shook his head. The butler had decided that Bruce should be the one to pull it out of the young teenager.
"Dick, we don't expect you to be happy all the time," Bruce said.
A half-chuckle of disbelief flew out of Dick's mouth.
"What happened that made you come to this conclusion? Why do you think we expect happiness all the time?"
"Just let it go, Bruce. I'm tired, and my head hurts, and my back hurts, and my neck hurts. Can I just go to bed?"
"No," Bruce replied simply but firmly. "I am not letting this go."
"Can it at least wait until tomorrow or something? I really don't feel good."
Assuming the pain was physical – which most of it was – Bruce acquiesced.
"Get a good night of sleep and we'll talk tomorrow."
"Yeah," Dick replied as he quickly stood up.
His left leg buckled and, when he tried to catch himself on the bed with his right arm, that buckled as quickly as his leg had.
"Stupid bullet wounds," he muttered as he dropped to the floor.
Bruce was already beside him, helping him up and putting a supporting arm around his waist. They slowly went from the Batcave, to the Manor stairs, to Dick's room. The man helped the boy find a semi-comfortable position, but they both knew it would not be a good night of sleep. His torso and neck had been forced backwards for too long for those muscles to allow him to be comfortable.
"I wonder what they were going to do," Dick suddenly commented as Bruce turned off the bedside lamp.
"What do you mean?"
"Why was I in that position? What could they possibly hope to accomplish by making me stare at the ceiling?"
"I have no idea what was going through the minds of those idiots. I actually don't know how…"
Bruce stopped when he realized what he had been about to say. The phrase 'how they were able to catch us' would start the conversation all over again, and Dick needed sleep.
"How what?" Dick asked.
Thinking quickly, Bruce amended his sentence.
"How that young boy wasn't spilling his drink. He was shaking like a leaf."
"That's because he shot me," Dick stated. "I don't think he meant to, but he did. Night."
Bruce was taken aback, but it made sense.
"Why did they give a gun to a kid that young?" he whispered to himself as he headed toward the door.
"You do know that I've been a crime-fighter for four years, right?" Dick asked. "I was younger than that kid the first time I held a weapon. Young is a relative term."
Turning back to face the teen, Bruce chuckled softly and said, "Go to sleep, chum."
The next morning Bruce was running late for a meeting, so the fact that they were supposed to talk about why Dick felt he had to be happy slipped his mind. Dick, who had come to breakfast with a smile on his face, didn't say anything. Later that morning, he quietly slipped down to the Batcave to erase any existence of that particular conversation from the Batcomputer's memory bank.
"Desculpe," he whispered as he watched the video evidence disappear.
Because Dick was the happy one.
THE END