Teachings of a Bat
A fic about all of the batshit insane lessons Batman has taught Robin.
Title: Five things Batman Taught Robin (and One Thing Dick Figured out Himself)
Warnings: None. If you squint, there's some shmoop at the end.
Timeline: Continuity is for the weak.
Summary: Batman has taught him everything, but he didn't raise no dummy. Dick can figure out a few things on his own.
Pairings: Robin (Dick Grayson)/Kid Flash (Wally West) for a short while, then Batman (Bruce Wayne)/Robin (Dick Grayson)
Rating: PG, maybe
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor do I have anything to do with DC. I'm not making any profit from this nonsense.
A/N: I'm new to this fandom, so please feel free to point out any glaring mistakes that I've made.
Unbeta'd, so any grammatical errors are mine.
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Dick loved training. He loved the rush, the intensity, the excitement. And the very rare, very occasional, well-deserved (but admittedly modest) praise from Batman wasn't bad, either.
But sometimes it sucked; there were no two ways about it. He was yelled at, berated, demeaned, and humiliated on a regular basis; and sometimes, the exercises seemed absolutely ridiculous. They seemed like something that the Bat had made up just to break him.
Dick supposed, hours after the fact, that each one of the Batman’s lessons were useful, necessary, even. He saw the necessity of being able to be thrown against a wall, for instance, without smashing his skull into it. He was only human after all, and apprentice to Batman or not, his skull was very crushable, much like the rest of him.
That didn't make the training any easier, as Batman continued to hurl Dick into the padded wall in the Batcave, and Dick continued to disappoint, simply not being able to react quickly enough, and slamming into a wall *hurt,* dammit. Especially when you're only fifteen, and Batman is so large.
Still, Dick shut his mouth and dealt. Not complaining even after the tenth time, when Batman started putting extra force and frustration into his throws. And Dick did get it, eventually. He twisted his young body like only he could, and kicked his feet against the wall, and dismounted beautifully.
As he stood from his crouch, grinning, he looked at his mentor, expecting to see pride, or contentment, or at least relief that he no longer had to throw his sidekick into a wall; but instead saw anger. Disappointment. “Took too long.” Batman turned and left him, cape flowing, frustration palpable.
Sure, this was something that Dick was used to: it's not as if Bruce had made it a habit in the past of granting him lavish praise, or even approval, but Dick was sore, and his ribs ached, and he just wanted the man to ruffle his hair, and tell him he'd been great, like the Flash did to the Kid Flash that one time.
Dick sighed. He couldn't win with the man. At least he was done with this.
That’s why, weeks later, he was so shocked when a pair of strong hands grabbed him, and hurled him, with much greater strength, into the padded wall. He wasn't even ready to spar, he was simply playing with his iPod, waiting for Bruce to finish up paperwork.
Naturally, caught that unawares, his body froze mid-flight. He remembered that he was supposed to do something, something like landing on the wall with your feet instead of your head, or risk shattering your spine, but he couldn't think that quickly. So he hit the wall with a thud, and felt his bones jar with the impact, and his nose started a steady stream of blood.
He felt, more than heard, the growl of Batman behind him, then Bruce was lifting him up and using his workout shirt to stop the bleeding. Dick couldn't do anything more than allow himself to be manhandled, hoping that Bruce wasn't too mad that he’d splattered against the wall again.
Bruce didn't seem too angry, however, when he scooped Dick up into his arms and carried him to a chair, giving him a tissue to stop the bleeding in his nose. He certainly didn't seem angry as he was applying a cold pack to Dick’s abused ribs, eyes heavy with concern.
“You aren't mad?” Dick asked, when he could hold back his question no longer.
“No. I didn't expect mastery. You're only human.” And just like that, Dick wanted to do better. Needed to do better, because that's why Bruce kept letting him be Robin: he was always able to surpass everyone's expectations, especially Bruce's.
So he worked, just like always. And weeks later, when Bruce grabbed him by surprise again, he surpassed his expectations.
And months later, when Dick pissed Kon-el off so badly that he hurled Dick into a cement wall, Dick reacted, and his skull was very intact as he jumped to the ground, and his spine was very not shattered, and he almost wanted to tell Bruce about how well he did, but he was very aware of just how pissed the Bat would be. He was also very aware of just how much green kryptonite was stored in the cellar below the Batcave, and how angry Bruce could get at times.
So he kept quite about the incident, and resisted the urge to fish for praise from the man. He was struck, however, with just how useful the training was, albeit hellish.
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It was really no secret how much the criminal element of Gotham detested Batman, but it was also painfully obvious that the man was damn near invincible; he was impossible to catch, and even harder to kill.
The Boy Wonder, on the other hand, was no where near the level of the Bat. He was a relatively easy target, and Batman knew this. That’s the very reason that one of Dick Grayson’s earliest and most recurring lessons was perfecting the art of escape.
For a contortionist like Dick, most of the binds were simple to escape. A dislocated shoulder, a little bit of undignified writhing, and viola, he was free.
Dick was sure, since this was one of the few lessons that he'd mastered so quickly, that Batman wouldn't continue to waste their time with this. Why continue to force the boy to dislocate joints when he'd obviously mastered the feat?
But with Bruce, nothing was ever that easy. That's exactly why, at the tender age of thirteen, a blindfolded Dick was hanging by his ankles, with his wrists secured behind his back.
Dick never worried durning any of their lessons; Bruce was always less than ten feet away, and always very prepared to step in and end things if something went wrong.
This time, however, Dick heard the familiar footsteps of Batman fall away, and felt the cold sensation of panic settle in his stomach.
What if he couldn't get free? If he passed out, with all of the blood rushing to his head, how would Bruce know?
He soon realized that it simply wasn't an option, or a possibility; he’d escaped worse bindings than those hundreds of times, and he'd simply have to do it again. So he'd wriggled and squirmed, and scraped his wrists against his restraints, and broke free.
Batman looked almost proud, five minutes later, when Robin had broken free and was jumping to the floor. Robin grinned at his mentor, slightly surprised to see him.
"I knew you wouldn't really leave me."
"Never."
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Much to Dick's dismay, there was more to being Bruce Wayne's young ward than doing hand stands and high kicks in a cave. Since Bruce obviously expected him to completely take over Wayne Enterprises one day, he trained Dick to be the perfect little socialite.
Dick detested the ballroom dancing lessons (although considerably less after Bruce drew a clever comparison between dancing and fighting), mostly because he had to spend the entire hour dancing with a girl who was far too giggly for his tastes. But there was absolutely nothing that the boy hated more than the charity banquets (he couldn't figure out why, but he thought that it was probably directly connected to the sick feeling he got seeing Bruce kiss his dates).
Dick felt as if far too much of his youth was spent learning to be an heir to the Wayne fortune, but he didn't dare complain, realizing even in his young age how much the man had done for him.
Still, Dick enjoyed his minor rebellions. One of his favorite ways to pass time at the banquets was to see how many back-handed insults he could get away with before the young women he was coerced into escorting became angry (his record was ten); and Dick never invited one of them to dance, instead letting them make the suggestion.
And on the rare occasion one of his dates were aggressive enough to make a move on him, he had to resist the urge to tell them that not three hours ago, he had very explicit phone sex with his boyfriend. But he realized how much trouble that would cause for Bruce, so, as much as it hurt, he politely declined, and made an excuse about saving himself for his future wife.
Dick probably learned more patience during one banquet than in seventeen years of life.
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Dick had seen Batman work under pressure, and it was truly a thing of beauty. He'd seen the man rescue countless victims, himself included, from a gunman with an arm around their throats and a gun pressed against their temples.
Dick had always been envious of him; he'd always hoped that one day he could do the things that Bruce could. That's why he wasn't complaining about the current lesson. Although the side of his head was splattered with layers of red paint, and he was frustrated beyond belief, he was desperate to learn.
Bruce had recruited Clark's help, and he was their “crazed gunman” for the day. That was the way that their current lesson went. Clark would have Dick pulled closely against him (a handicap to Dick by its own merit), with the inside of his elbow pressed lightly against his throat, with Bruce’s paint gun at his temple.
Dick was convinced that not even Batman could have broken that hold. It was Superman, for Christ’s sake, and there was no way he was getting out of that hold, Batman distracting him or not. He still made a valiant effort, and eventually, Clark took pity on him and let him struggle away, without pulling the trigger in time.
Batman glared, but Clark, always on Robin’s side, defended him, “Realistically, Bruce, if I were an average criminal, he could have gotten away from me.” Batman’s growl cut him off.
“How often do we fight someone who’s not the average criminal? Again.”
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Dick had been seeing Wally for a while, half secretly and half not-so-secretly, and it was hardly a secret about how much Bruce hated the boy, and how much he desired to hurt him, but, much to Dick’s surprise, he allowed the two to see each other, to an extent.
Bruce had very strict rules about the whole affair. The two couldn't be alone together (a rule they broke quite frequently), they couldn't be out past nine (another rule that was oft bent), and, in the latter months of their relationship, when Bruce was just so damned frustrated with the whole thing, Wally was forbidden from looking at Dick for extended periods of time (Wally and Dick had difficulty in keeping straight faces during the induction of that rule).
There were also Bruce's unspoken rules, like Wally won’t, under any circumstance, touch Dick; a violation of which quickly earned him a glare and a growl. Or, god forbid, if he were to attempt to kiss Dick, Bruce would get so angry that Wally became a little frightened. Sure, he was the fastest kid on earth, and Batman was only human, but Batman always found out, and he always got his man.
Due to Dick’s sheer amount of respect and adoration for his mentor, the rules were observed in front of Bruce, at least. So on those days that Wally was feeling especially brave (or hormone possessed), and he attempted to run his hands along Dick’s leg, Dick would faithfully and quietly push his hands away, hoping Bruce wouldn't glower at Wally.
But Wally was a typical teenage boy, and so was Dick, so their desire to obey their hormones had a tendency to beat Dick’s desire to obey Bruce.
So it wasn't uncommon for the two to be in a dark spot of Gotham Central Park, after Robin finished patrol with Batman. At two a.m., when both Wally and Dick were assumed to be asleep in their respective beds, and both of their guardians certainly were (Dick checked before sneaking out), Wally and Dick were rolling in the damp grass, stifling laughs with kisses.
It also wasn’t uncommon, however, for a raging Batman to catch them. Dick was never particularly upset when they were caught; it wasn't as if Bruce would ever hurt Wally, and Wally obviously wasn't too perturbed by the threats if he kept coming back, but Dick remembers one time in particular that Batman just seemed so angry, like he was just sick of it.
Dick wisely kept his mouth shut as Bruce laid into both of them. Normally, he'd simply tell Wally to, “Go the hell home, Wally,” growling that he wasn't his problem or his responsibility, and drag Dick home. But this time, he grabbed Dick *and* Wally by their biceps, and hauled them to the Batmobile.
During the drive, Wally kept flashing him lewd grins and winks, which forced Dick to really question the boy’s sanity, because of course Bruce noticed them: he’s the goddamned Batman.
“Look at him again and I’ll break you legs.”
Dick learned, after Batman dragged Wally to his Uncle Barry’s front door, that sneaking out simply wasn't worth it when the Batman was involved.
Wally and Dick's breakup was messy.
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Dick's had a deep, dark secret since about the time he turned fifteen. It was a dirty, dirty little secret, even dirtier than what Wally did for him on his sixteenth birthday.
He realized how wrong it was. He didn't care.
He realized how wrong it was that he got a rise out of most of his training sessions, that he'd lay in bed at night and just think about Bruce's strong arms holding him in a head lock, or his large hands grasping at him.
Dick's favorite, though, were those rare sparing matches when the Bat would hit him hard enough to throw him for a loop. Not hard enough to knock him out, but just hard enough that Dick got a little dizzy. Then Bruce was there, cradling him in his arms, and just looking at him, concern clear.
Yeah. Dick loved that the best.
But on the nights that his training included escaping from restraints, with Bruce just standing there, watching him from under his cowl, waiting?
That wasn't bad, either.
He was normally pretty good at keeping his secret hidden, although it did prove difficult at times, seeing as how he and Bruce spent so much time in such close quarters; but he kept it a secret.
On those nights when he simply couldn't resist watching Bruce, he kept it subtle. Sneaky little looks at his ass when his cape flowed, glances towards his arms in the midst of battle, and, when he was feeling adventurous, he'd risk a glance in the showers of the Batcave.
But days when he felt that brave (or wreck less, depending on how one looked at it) were few and far between. The vast majority of Dick's teenaged days were spent quietly lusting after his mentor, and suffering in silence.
...
Dick fully realized the risk in what they did. He never fooled himself into thinking that either one of them were invincible. As
Bruce had told him, time and time again, they were only humans, so they simply had to be better.
One of the terrible, awful things that goes along with being a human with no super powers is the dammed fragility. They were, when it came down to it, just as susceptible to fatal injuries as the average citizen.
Sure, they could, and did, train. Dick was easily the strongest (human) his age, and Bruce, well, he was the god damned *Batman.*
But to Dick’s knowledge, there were no training exercises that could turn bones to steel; there was nothing that they could do about their spinal cords’ frailties, and unfortunately, when one is mortal, it only takes one screw up to end it.
Understanding all of these facts made nothing easier on Dick as he watched in horror. It didn't make it any easier to resist turning around and punching Hal, who was holding him back from running into the burning ruins of the building.
Dick's stomach dropped in terror as he watched Clark desperately digging through wreckage, finally pulling up a bloody, limp hero. Hal turned Dick around and forced his face against his chest.
Dick squirmed, desperately pushing against hard muscle; but Hal didn't let him budge, muttering that this wasn't something he needed to see. Dick struggled harder, and with a pang of guilt and a Batarang to Hal’s side, Dick broke away.
Dick shattered. This was his worst nightmare, one that had haunted him since the night he'd found out who Bruce really was. This is what had Dick up screaming in the early hours, and what sent him to Bruce’s arms, seeking comfort.
Hal wrapped an arm around his shoulders, no longer attempting to prevent Dick from witnessing. Clark flew away carrying a bleeding Batman, a steady drip of red leaving a bloody trail behind them.
Hours later, Dick was holding Batman’s hand in the infirmary. He watched the man stretch and groan as his aching body violently protested the movements.
“How do you feel?”
“Fantastic.” He paused, feeling vaguely guilty for the sarcasm. “You?”
Dick grinned, “I wasn't the one crushed by a building.” He cocked his head thoughtfully, “You really are indestructible.”
Bruce smirked, “Damn straight.” Dick brushed back hair from his forehead, and Bruce grabbed his wrist, frowning.
Dick froze, panic setting in as he realized he was caught. All of those years of hiding his secret were ruined, wasted by one schmaltzy move.
Bruce seemed to consider him. Dick’s heart fluttered as he waited for Bruce to do something. He winced as Bruce’s hand moved, expecting to be struck.
Dick was floored as a hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him closer and brushing their lips. Dick grinned, and felt Bruce's lips twitch in a half-smile.
After years of yearning for Bruce, he was finally getting his wish, and it was far more incredible than he could have imagined.
Dick learned, as Bruce pulled him back for another kiss, that life is too short to spend pining over someone.