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The city slick has got Gotham in its clutches once again. Rain, gasoline, grime. That's the way this godforsaken city is. Always something going on. Always something pushing you.
Batman and Robin travel in the element. The natural element, the criminal element, the element that breathes in the air of the damned. The Dark Knight and the Boy Wonder are on the job.
Or, rather, the Dark Knight is on the job. The Boy Wonder is busy slacking off.
Dick runs. He's restless, and maybe that's because he was plucked from a traveling life in the circus to do rounds of the world's worst city skyline. Tonight, he has complaints. He thinks he can quit: the brat isn't grateful. But he is impressive, so the Batman searches for his sidekick. Trawling avenues and bars and rooftops to see where his insolent little disciple might be.
Corner after corner passes him by on the streets, filled with the city's unsavory. What a crying shame the boy doesn't get it. His Robin is one wrong flight from becoming a sack of meat fallen at the feet of Gotham's devils.
Rooftop after rooftop and he finds him at the balustrade of one of those fancy old buildings uptown.
"What are you doing, Robin?" Batman seethes in his anger. He can feel himself veering off the proverbial cliff — he can't stop the crash. "Dreaming of a better life? Think you're in some musical?"
Robin flashes him an easy grin. Must be a fake. Underneath it, he looks troubled. "No, sir. I have you to thank for that." The boy sticks his tongue out.
Batman has the urge to shove it right back where it came from, but he doesn't. He curls his fist into a ball around the kid's wrist.
"You couldn't quit even if you tried, kid."
They go home. If he were asked a penny for his thoughts, Batman would say, boys will be boys. And some boys, like the Boy Wonder, need a lesson taught to them.
LOUD. The cave is loud. Clunk clang buzz zap THUD. Still as loud as the day Dick was brought here. No Bach, though. A tune plays from the rafters that Dick doesn't recognize. Classical, of course. Dramatic, as the Batman is wont to be.
He's left him here alone, to think. Part and parcel of punishment. Dick takes in the music and fidgets in the corner. It gets boring, this place. He's beyond the days of being wide-eyed, and he never was amused. When Alfred isn't here, there's no one to talk to, save himself.
Maybe he is going crazy. He dreams about what he'll say to Batman next. He won't be nice anymore. Won't be glib. He'll say nasty things, like I HATE YOU and YOU'RE SCUM and YOU'RE JUST A CREEP! His mother and father would understand, they would. Gotham isn't a nice kind of place. It makes you harsher. It's made Dick harsher, for certain. And probably Batman, too. Or maybe he was born that way. It's not like he would know.
He dreams and he dreams, his eyes wide open. He only snaps out of it when he sees something gleam out of the corner of his eye. He jumps before he realizes it's not Batman — it's Alfred.
No, it's not Alfred. He hardly sees Alfred so much as he feels the weight of his presence, lurking in the dark. It must be a figment of his imagination.
Geez, he is going crazy. Batman will be his ruin, he's sure of it.
The kid sits there in the corner like he'd be better suited to a dunce cap than his cape. His little Robin folds in on himself. Stares into space. It makes the pipsqueak look all the more pathetic. All that bravado, shorn from its husk.
Batman lays a hand on his boy, gentle, and feels a strike of pity beat at his heart. But he's not here to give into it. He's here to get the kid to grow up some. His little Robin needs a new pair of wings.
"Come here," he says. He's got a half-baked idea rattling around in his brain. A gentle touch isn't what Robin needs. He needs discipline. Law and order — or as good as vigilantes get.
The kid is good. He'll give him that. That doesn't change the facts. Even the best soldier is prone to slip.
Dick Grayson, twelve years old, is no exception. He stands up, a glimmer in his gaze that foretells his fate. Brave, defiant, rough around the edges.
Someone has to sand him smooth.
"What d'you want now?" Dick scuffs his pixie-boot against the floor.
"I just want to teach you something."
"Like what?"
"A training exercise, that's all."
"Are you sure?"
"Don't doubt me now, Robin."
They stand across from each other, staring. Stubborn-headed, the both of them. Facing the bullseye.
"Fine," Dick exhales.
"'Atta boy," Batman replies. The thin veneer of Hollywood praise gives way to something stony. His hand lays heavy on the boy's shoulder, expectant.
"Stand straight, soldier. Strip."
Dick looks back at him, his eyes narrow. "Creepy," he mutters.
A familiar bark of authority lays down the law. "Do it!"
That gets the boy to listen, if reluctantly. Good. There's hope for him yet.
Midway through, Dick asks how much he should take off. "All of it," Batman directs. "You don't need clothes for this exercise."
Dick swallows a lump of dry air. He stands in the nude fifteen seconds later.
Hand on hip, he tries to sound snarky. "What do you want me to do? Eat rats naked? Escape some queer bondage thing you got? What?"
It doesn't work. A hint of fear creeps into his voice.
"I thought performers weren't supposed to be shy."
"We wear clothes, you know."
Not the right answer. Batman looms over him, his cape a shroud of gloom. "Shh. I want to see what I'm working with."
Dick watches as the gloves come off. He thinks nothing of it. Sometimes Batman works with the gloves off. Types. Inspects things.
But then the boots go, too. The fastenings of the cape are undone; it flutters to the floor. The cowl is loosened. And Dick realizes, eye to eye with the man in front of him, he is the object. The thing to be inspected and played with.
He inhales through his nose. Batman becomes Bruce and Bruce is touching him. Bare hands settle on either side of his hips. "What're you doing?"
"Hasn't anybody ever shown you before?"
"Shown me what?"
"Your body."
The brat swallows the situation down the way Bruce thought he would: with a fight. He twists and twirls and thrashes until Bruce has got him pinned by the neck to the floor.
WEIRDO. CREEP. CRAZY. He calls him all those names and more until he's finally out of breath and he finally, finally, stops resisting. Maybe it was too soon. But if there's one thing Bruce believes, it's that the world doesn't wait for anyone. And Gotham certainly won't wait for Dick Grayson to get a grip.
"Behave," he snarls into the boy's ear. "This is your fair share of commitment. If you're good, we won't do it here."
Kid is quiet. Bruce takes it as a sign of compliance.
"I'm only going to teach you once," he continues. "This is the responsibility that comes with partnership, and I expect it of you."
Dick nods. He can't speak with the hand around his throat.
…A BOY THAT LEARNS TO PLEASE NEVER LEAVES. That's the idea Bruce works with.
And boy, oh boy, is the kid a natural.
Down on his knees in the bedroom, he's quiet. All his outspoken taunts fade away into a single distant memory. His face is streaked with tears.
Bruce wonders briefly if the boy hasn't done this before. His hands are steady, his eyes piercing through the length of his lashes. He looks up like he's supposed to. It'd be a shame not to see that pretty face. But something in the way his lip quivers — just barely — tells Bruce this must be the first time. He's got himself a virgin on his hands. Underneath the tough boy act is a scaredy little virgin.
Somehow he likes that. He fists his hand in Dick's hair and brings him in for a kiss. He's got to go easy on the virgin boy.
Dick breathes in a rush of air when his lips are free and he frowns.
"Don't look like that, kid," Bruce says. "You're cuter when you smile."
"Hmph." Dick mumbles something under his breath.
"What was that?"
"I said, fuck off." Lower, he adds, "This also counts as exploiting a minor, you know."
Brat. A slap in the face would do him good, but he refrains. "And who says that? You look pretty adult to me, sweetheart." His eyes roam. The kid has nice thighs and a slender little cock. It's real lucky no one has ever touched him before.
"You want to try again?" Bruce continues. His hands grip the boy's shoulders with a squeeze of cruel pressure. "I don't think you're going to like talking back."
Dick considers. The glint of fear in his gaze returns. Poor snot has no idea what to do. "No, sir," he squeaks out. He almost starts to cry again.
"Good soldier."
The first time is bound to be the most fraught, Bruce thinks. Growing up is hard enough to adjust to, even for the kind of wonder his boy is.
Steady. Easy. He alternates between guiding Dick with a stern hand and letting him feel out the motions for himself.
From the basics they work their way on up. A simple handjob progresses to the filthiest blowjob Bruce has ever received in his life, and in what seems like no time he has the boy on his back in bed, his plush thighs spread out wanting for lube.
"You want to try to go the full distance?" Bruce whispers, his mouth at a mark he'd left on Dick's neck.
The kid nods, this time less tearfully than before. Quick learner, he is. Bruce feels a strange surge of pride well up in his chest.
He watches, straining forward to look under him, as Bruce works to loosen him up. "You're not going to put it in there, are you?" he asks. Classic virgin.
Bruce has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. "Of course I am, kid. You can take it." He pauses briefly to pat Dick's thigh. "Someone like you can take anything."
"You're crazy," Dick gapes. "I didn't even fit it halfway in my mouth."
Bruce only grins. "C'mon, don't be a spoilsport." He slides his fingers out of Dick's hole in favor of the real thing, a split-second's 'brace yourself' as warning.
"Jesus Christ," he groans. Slick as hell and heavenly. "You're a useful thing, aren't you?"
"Nooo," Dick protests. "Go slower."
"Oh, shut up. You like it."
He gets a ragged huff in response.
The longer they go, the more obvious it is the boy was born for this. To think that Dick Grayson, aerialist extraordinaire, would make a pretty good whore wouldn't be at all farfetched. Studying him, Bruce sees how that spark of mischief in the face of athleticism lights him from within, and makes him push the envelope. If he didn't want it before, he wants it now. He wants to see how far he can go.
"Let me on top," Dick sighs, not quite breathless. "I want to try."
He situates the boy as directed. "Let me look at that fucking filthy face of yours," he says.
The kid laughs, and he rides. He rides until Bruce has the image of his face seared into his brain, until he feels their joinedness completely in his bones. This boy is never going to leave him. He's never going to escape.
That's the thought that breaks the dam. And then he's cumming, going, going, going, gone.
(After, comes the regret.)
I'M HALF-CRAZY.
I put my hands on that boy.
I touched my little Robin.
I talk to myself when it's morning, and it sticks. I'm half-crazy. I say, he shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here in my bed.
He doesn't hear me. He's fast asleep. He looks younger when he's sleeping. God, he doesn't even shave yet. He's a boy.
He's a boy.
I could've looked up that Black Canary. Should've looked her up. A drive in the car and there you are.
That last part I say aloud. There you are.
Eyes half-closed and half-open, the boy responds in a tiny, groggy voice. I'm where? he asks.
This punk. He's just a kid.
You're nowhere, I say.
Nowhere at all. Except with me.