Chapter Text
The week following Dick was restless, finding it hard to pay attention to anything. To be fair, it was usually hard to pay attention, especially when it was something that didn't particularly interest him. This week was noticeably different, though. And of course it wasn’t hard to discern the cause. He was thinking about Deathstroke. And the choice he had to make.
On the one hand, Bruce would never approve. Of course, Dick wasn't planning on telling him, but he couldn't help but hear his father's disapproval in his mind anyway. Plus, Bruce was the World's Greatest Detective. And it wasn't like Dick could trust Deathstroke. The man was a killer. For money. Human life meant nothing to him.
But… Deathstroke was strong. Stronger than Dick. And he could teach him things Batman couldn't. Granted, that was because they were used for murder, but how could he fight a murderer if he didn't know a few of their moves? This could be monumental. And he could gather intel, lay the groundwork for Deathstroke's arrest.
In the end, it was easy to slip out in the early evening, right after dinner. He'd be a little early, but that could possibly give him a tactical advantage. And he needed every advantage he could get.
Unfortunately, that didn’t really work out for him. It seemed that Deathstroke had also decided to be early. Robin could see him from a long ways off. At least that gave him time to circle around and make his landing behind Deathstroke.
“Stealthy.” Deathstroke remarked, casually turning to face him. “But, as I’m sure you’re aware, you are dressed in bright red and yellow. I could see you coming.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Robin snapped. He had taken everything into account, right? He knew how to hide himself from regular humans. Deathstroke should’ve been no different.
“Doesn’t it?” Deathstroke sounded amused, but with an edge to it. “You look like a walking advertisement for the circus.”
“Great.” Robin smirked, not reacting to the reference. He couldn’t give Deathstroke any clues to his identity. “I love the circus. Everyone should go see it sometime.”
“Maybe I will.” Deathstroke replied smugly. “I hear there’s good money in circus assassinations.”
“...where’d you hear that?” Robin was wary.
“Around.” Deathstroke waved a hand. “But enough about the circus. You didn’t come here to chat, after all. Did you, little bird?”
“No.” Robin spoke through gritted teeth. “Stop calling me that. It’s Robin.”
“Like that’s any different.” Deathstroke snorted. “You ever see a robin, kid? They’re tiny.” He raised his hand, holding his fingers apart in an approximation of the size of a robin. “Just like you. What are you, 11? 12?”
“14.” Robin snapped, dropping into an offensive stance. “Now c’mon. I thought we weren’t here to chat?” He smirked.
“Certainly.” Deathstroke drew his blade. “I hope for your sake that you’ve decided to be more focused this time.”
Robin didn’t respond to that, instead leaping into the air and somersaulting forward to avoid Deathstroke’s strike. He had nothing but focus this time around. Batman had always taught him to give his all to training, and that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Training? As he landed he made sure to kick Deathstroke in that weak spot behind the knees for good measure. Not that it did much, with all that armour.
“What did you hope to accomplish with that?” Deathstroke turned to face Robin, who was already on the move again. “That may be effective in a different scenario. I expect you to fight for the situation you find yourself in. How do you take down an armoured opponent?”
“What is this, a quiz?” Robin muttered, throwing a birdarang. Deathstroke caught it (probably a reflex), but it did blow up on him. Robin threw all his body weight in a kick to Deathstroke’s chest while the mercenary was caught off balance by the explosion. This almost resulted in Deathstroke being knocked over. Robin’s frustration grew when it did not.
“Good answer, little bird.” Deathstroke reoriented himself. “Insufficient, however.”
“Oh, shut up!!” Robin snapped, dodging away from Deathstroke’s sword again. This time around, the strikes were coming at too fast a speed for Robin to have much time to do anything but dodge. How was one (non-Flash) man so fast?
“Feedback is how we improve, little bird.”
Probably the most infuriating part of this was how Deathstroke’s voice wasn’t strained, or overly emotive at all. Everything was cold and calculated. It just made it seem so easy, like the only wins Robin managed to take were only because Deathstroke was toying with him.
It was different from training with Batman, monumentally so. Not in the way that Batman typically held back on Robin, no, of course not, but in the cruelty behind the hits. Deathstroke aimed to cause pain, pushing Robin to his limits in ways that weren’t entirely unwelcome. And if Robin could start to remember some of these moves and adjust his style accordingly, then he would be gaining something entirely new. He’d be a more effective hero, at least he hoped so.
They’d been going a long while with no break of any kind when Robin felt himself slip. Deathstroke took the opportunity to strike hard against Robin’s lower ribs with his foot. Suddenly pinned under Deathstroke’s boot again, Robin heard the crack. He winced. It took a moment for the pain to set in. Ow.
“Oops.” Deathstroke stepped back from Robin. He didn’t sound as though he truly meant it. “That was careless of you. You had an opening to prevent that.”
“Fuck off.”
“Language.” Deathstroke chided. Robin glared at him. “Nevertheless, I believe that’s enough for the day. After all, you’ll need to check that out and take some time to heal.”
“Great.” Robin sighed. He was relieved to be done, but honestly he just felt like he was going to practice for the next time as soon as he got home. “See you then.”
“Hold on, little bird.” Deathstroke chuckled. “So impatient. No, I’m going to need to see your phone or something along those lines first.”
“What?” Robin pulled himself up to his feet, staring at Deathstroke. “Why?”
“Because,” Deathstroke said impatiently, as though he was explaining to someone very young or stupid, or both. “I am a very busy man, and I’m going to need to be able to contact you to arrange our next session. So I’m going to give you my number.”
Robin thought about that for a minute. There was a lot of risk with that, and maybe some of it was risk he couldn’t afford. But… he’d come this far…
“Fine.” Robin pulled up his holocomputer from his wrist and held it out. “I don’t carry my phone as Robin, for reasons that I think are obvious. But this functions well enough the same.”
“Good.” Deathstroke input his number where prompted, and Robin recalled the computer. “You did well today, Robin. I am… impressed. Becoming my apprentice was the right decision.”
“...right.” Robin shifted uncomfortably. He’d avoided thinking of himself as Deathstroke’s apprentice thus far. He didn’t like it just being said, casually, out loud.
“Now go and rest up, little bird.” Deathstroke turned away, pausing before leaving just once more. “I’ll be in touch.”
Robin watched him go before turning away and heading home, himself. Honestly, he was not really any closer on the taking down Deathstroke front. Guess that meant he was in it for the long haul. Besides, he still had lots more to learn.