Author's Note: Story is a little rough around certain edges. Still good enough quality for submission. Jason goes through hell in the gym. Dick appears to voice his concerns. Jason tells him how it is. Enjoy.

Work

I won't lie; I'm feeling so much better. It's only been three days since I got ill, but Al's potions are doing the trick. That's why I skipped the mid-morning lie-in and went in the gym. I used to be scrawny, like really badly skinny. A diet of cheeseburgers and pop-tarts didn't help much, but cheap, quality food is hard to come by when you live on the streets. Nowadays, I've got the body of an Olympic-level gymnast, only more conditioned. It looks great of course and lets me do things most people would consider physically impossible, but is a total bitch to maintain. Not only do I have to train six-times-a-week, but my diet has to be stricter than my training regime otherwise I lose balance of my fitness attributes. I have to admit, when Bruce first started training me, I thought I'd never make it to the end, let alone be capable of maintaining his standard once I'd achieved it. It's a freaking struggle to eat the right blend of nutrients, protein and carbs in the right amounts every day, but I manage. Al has to help me, but I manage. It's only ten in the morning and I've already eaten twice: breakfast and then my pre-workout meal. With what I'm about to put myself through, I need all the calories I can get.

For the first couple of years here, I followed Bruce's exercise routines. That man is insane. What he puts himself through is freakish even by our ridiculous standards. His swimming routine involves chains and padlocks…and blindfolds. His strength program has bench-presses in excess of seven-hundred pounds…for repetitions. So, after trying to adapt them for my physical capabilities and failing, I made up my own routines to follow. They probably hurt just as much as his, but don't involve the risk of death with every session. After stripping off my hooded jacket, I begin the warm-up.

Let me be clear: gymnastics is for girls. Handstands, backflips, cartwheels and the splits are designed to make girls look really hot. No question it works; I see female gymnasts on TV going through a routine and I have to go to the bathroom after a few minutes. Girls in leotards bending over backwards turn me on. They make it look so easy to do too, like anybody could do it. Of course, the reality's different and especially for guys. When girls do gymnastics they look graceful and elegant; guys look like muscle-bound freaks trying to break their necks with crazy manoeuvres…at least I do. Because I hate gymnastics so much, I always warm-up with it. It's not to punish myself for being a bad-tempered little acrobat or to appease Bruce; it's to make sure I don't get sloppy. If I can't perform these movements perfectly in the gym, the chance of me getting killed in the field because I mistimed a flip goes through the roof. Not really in the mood to die because I couldn't do what my fantasy girls do in my head when I'm alone.

Pommel house is first. Invention is your enemy with things like this; never do gymnastics in your own way, always do exactly as you were taught. So my routine on the horse is ripped straight from the last Olympic gold medal winner's performance on the apparatus. It took almost three years to go through the whole set of movements without fucking up at least once and then another two months to execute a flawless routine consistently; now it's child's play which is lucky for me because I couldn't handle anything more difficult. I do the full routine three times without a single mistake; warm-up done.

Next up, bodyweight exercises. I just do handstand push-ups until my shoulders cramp up, followed by the plank until my abs throw in the towel. Usually it's around the ten minute mark for the abs and six minutes for the push-ups; my record in that timeframe is just under one hundred and ten complete push-ups. Today I manage seventy-eight. I guess I am still a little sick. Then I do box jumps until I think I reach one-hundred-and-fifty reps. if all this sounds crazy, don't worry. It is absolutely insane. Because even after burning my body into the ground for nearly twenty-five minutes, cramming two or three hours worth of physical work into that timeframe, I'm still only halfway through the session. Now we move on to free weights.

Before I hit the iron, I down a double-dose of whey protein and nearly a whole litre of cold water to replace what I've already sweated out. I want to throw-up at this point, really badly, but I force the protein shake down my throat. It stays down as I load up an Olympic barbell with two forty-five-pound plates on either side and focus my mind. There are three lifts I have to perform; the clean and jerk, the snatch and the Jason Todd press. Invention is only the enemy in gymnastics, not this stuff; I love this stuff. I can clean more than twice my bodyweight, but can only press out one-and-a-half times my weight. Plus I can't go crazy or I lose speed and flexibility in order to gain strength. Balance is so important in my fitness levels. The Jason Todd press is basically a bench press, except at the lock-out phase of the movement you have to stand up. It is ridiculously hard to do, even at one-hundred-per cent in terms of energy; right now I'm hovering around fifty-five. I manage all the lifts three times each. On my final sets I improve my records by five pounds on each lift. Now for sprints.

By now, I'm ready to die on my feet. I've been working out for almost forty-five minutes. My stamina and energy levels are into redline areas of human endurance and I feel dizzy. Still, only five more minutes to go. I line up at the start of the twenty-metre shuttle run and prepare to destroy whatever's left to take. After fifty suicides I collapse on the floor, swimming in my own juices. This time I don't lose all control of my bowels and shit myself. That has happened twice. I've also pissed myself four times after a session. Al and Bruce are never impressed with my dedication; they just think I'm disgusting. They would be right. After nearly fifteen minutes of lying motionless on the ground, I manage to force myself onto my elbows. The sweating and what I thought might've been a prelude to a heart attack have finished tormenting me. I'm now freezing and dressed in nothing but a drenched pair of shorts and Lycra vest. Don't ask about the vest; I'm vain okay? Tight things look really good on me.

"Need a hand nutcase?"

I roll onto my stomach to find Dick grinning at me from the far side of the gym.

"How long have you been watching?"

"Since you started punching your own stomach for being weak. You're so funny to watch."

"Fuck you, Golden Boy." I tell him whilst attempting to get to my feet. They aren't playing at the moment, figuring it's far more productive to pretend they belong to a paraplegic rather than me. Dick just grins more. I stop trying to stand up and start crawling with my arms.

"Really? You're going to crawl a hundred metres across the gym to crawl almost four times that distance to get to the shower? Are you sure you don't want a hand, little bird?"

"From big bird, are you kidding?" I say as I make my way past him on route to the door. Dick walks alongside me.

"Not curious why I'm here then?"

"Er…to suck Bruce off?"

"So you're in that kind of mood huh?"

"Yep. Tell me anyway though."

"To check you were okay. Alfie said you'd had like the worst fever he'd ever seen."

"Nah, it was indigestion."

"You really can't do non-lewd humour, can you Jay-Jay?"

"And you can't do humour at all so we're about even."

"Need help yet?"

"Nope." That's just the most unconvincing lie I've told all day; I'm crawling around like I've got Polio and am just too dumb to realize it. Plus, the horrific torture I've just inflicted on myself in the past hour means I'm literally crawling at a snail's pace. At this rate, I'll reach the shower by dinner. It's sort of a relief when Dick stops asking permission and just slings me over his shoulder. He knows I'm stubborn and pretty crazy. I will never ask for his help even if I desperately want it. Golden boy can tell when I need him though. He's not my brother, but I guess he is my friend. "Thanks Dick."

"You're welcome Super-Brat."

When we reach the top of the main staircase, I give walking another try. This time my legs don't dissolve underneath me. They feel twice as heavy as normal and every step is a huge effort, but I begin to walk. Golden Boy is still next to me.

"Have you seen the size of the sweat patch you left on my shoulder?" He asks showing a huge circular stain covering his entire right shoulder and close to half of his torso, "It's like you've been swimming."

"So change your shirt." I tell him with my hand on the bathroom door. Dick still hasn't left yet. "I can shower on my own, Ponytail." I hate the guy's ponytail; I think he looks fucking ridiculous. He's got a weird frown on his face where a stupid smile should be. It's a bad fit for someone like him.

"You sure you're okay? Alfie's a little worried about you." I can't help but sneer at his concern; Golden Boy is only ever concerned about me when Al is fretting over my behaviour. If it's Bruce complaining, he mostly ignores it, chalking it to the big guy's unattainable standards. But if it's Al, Dick drops everything and comes to his aid. If it weren't so sickly, it'd be sweet.

"I'm fine. Al's always worried about me, thinks I'm going down a dark path."

"It's not that Jason. He's worried you're pushing yourself too hard. He thinks your half-marathon last week, the one he said you did in freezing temperatures in nothing but a T-shirt and shorts, caused your fever."

"Maybe, sounds a little far-fetched to me though." Dick rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Be serious. Take it easy on the physical training; you should be able to walk after you finish." I shrug.

"And I can. It just took a while longer than usual."

"You couldn't even stand up for almost thirty minutes, let alone walk." I'm getting a little pissed-off with Circus Boy's preaching and self-effacing bullshit. It's like he's pretending he never did half the crazy stuff I'm doing in training, like he's never worked his ass off to get some recognition from our mutual god. I hope he can see my temper flaring up right now or what I say next might come as a surprise.

"Have you tried to impress him lately?" I snap. Dick says nothing in response. That's good; it's his time to listen now. "I don't just live in that man's shadow; I live in yours too. I'm not the athlete you are, or the moderate intellectual you are, or the showman you are or even the good kid you like to play…I'm Jason Todd, not Dick Grayson. Do you think he gives me any leeway for NOT being you? The answer is a big fat 'no'. So I have to push myself harder than you did, for longer than you did or else he gives me the 'your predecessor applied himself with far greater focus and dedication' speech. All I hear, all I ever fucking hear when I put on that costume is how bad I am next to you, how unrefined I am as Robin. I push myself harder to make him shut up. I want him to be able to say nothing about my lack of dedication. I want him to leave me alone. If I have to kill myself in the gym to do that, if I have to work myself to within an inch of my life to make him see me as your equal, I'll do it. Don't tell me to take it easy, Dick; this Robin doesn't know what the fuck that is." There is a brutal silence. He has nothing to respond with. I consider just opening the door, going in and then slamming it in his face. But I think there's one other thing I want to make clear to Golden Boy. I open the door.

"Tell Al…thanks for caring. Man's got a heart of gold." And then I shut it in his face.

Shower time.