Chapter Text
The crash of metal from inside the warehouse should be startling, but at this point, nothing is on fire and that’s all Robin can ask for. There’s no green-tinged haze clouding the air through the holes that used to be windows. Batman hasn’t called for backup, and Agent A hasn’t started directing Robin away from the warehouse on comms.
In other words, whatever very-expensive machine that just fell or broke or exploded thanks to the Joker is still designated Not Robin’s Problem. Which is a good thing, since he’s already got a heck of a hyena bite in his right calf and Harley’s hammer missed his shoulder by a fraction of an inch during that last roll.
“Still think yer crazy to be out like this, skittle!” Harley tuts, pursing her lips and wincing when it pulls her split lip. “I mean, look at’cha, yer a walkin’ target and barely four foot high! Don’cha have a bedtime? It’s a school night.”
They’ve been fighting like this for ages, probably coming up on an hour. Whatever their partners are doing inside, it’s shaping up to be a long night. Even Robin’s stamina has limits, and Harley doesn’t seem to be an exception either. They’re both sweating, battered, and sluggish-- comparatively, of course.
Robin grins at her, maybe a little bit hysterical. “Who’re ya callin’ crazy, crazy?”
Instead of getting upset, Harley just giggles. “Ya got me, sour patch. Listen, tryna kill each other is fun and all, but-- water break? I think there’s a spout somewhere around here.”
“Ew.” Robin crinkles his nose. He pulls two packets of water from his belt and tosses her one. “Water, yes. But it’s October, Harley. And Crane's AWOL.”
She puts her hammer down, leaning on the handle like a walking stick. “Got a point there. Pinky promise yer not tryna drug me?”
He almost says “Yeah” from reflex, but she actually reaches out her hand, pinky extended. The goosebumps on her chalky skin match his own, neither of them dressed for the chilly Jersey night now that they’ve stopped moving.
Robin wraps his gloved pinky around hers and shakes it like a Super Professional Handshake. “Promise! Truce for a few minutes?”
She nods, and they sit next to each other by the skylight of the warehouse. Below them, Batman and Joker are fighting, probably to the death, but both Robin and Harley have seen what happens when one of them tries to interfere with that particular dance. Neither of them is anxious for a repeat experience.
The light from the warehouse filters up and enfolds the two of them. This close, it’s hard to pretend that Harley’s signature look is from makeup alone.
Some of it is, though. Cakey black concealer hides deep purple circles under her eyes-- ones that sometimes, Robin knows, aren’t just from long nights. He wouldn’t even notice under the greasepaint if it didn’t smear off during drawn-out fights, taking the concealer with it. Harley wipes away a drop of water that spilled down her lip, and licks the blood off her finger from the split.
And Robin also knows for a fact that he hasn’t gotten any face shots in tonight.
“Hey Harley?” he asks, bringing up a knee and wrapping one arm loosely around it. “I have a question.”
“Shoot, bubblegum. If it’s about that tumble earlier, I ain’t takin' responsibility for your bad form.”
Robin makes a sound that’s not not a squawk. “I tripped on a loose vent cover!”
The cackle Harley lets out bounces down the alley. “Sure ya did. What’s up?”
“Don’t get mad,” he says, trying to sound as sincere as he feels. Harley’s posture stiffens just slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt. “Why stay when he hurts you?”
He’s so, so careful not to stress any word in the question. Harley’s Arkham file is thin-- she’s only been incarcerated twice, and never for long --but she’s touchy about the subject. What did the Joker offer you? the interrogators asked in the transcript. Why would you help a mass murderer? You know he’s incapable of loving you. When will you come to your senses? In every case, she was described as “violently uncooperative” and “needing sedation.”
Nowhere in the file did it mention anyone asking if she was okay.
But Robin knows that sometimes, she’s not. Sometimes, she’s been out of confinement for weeks, and misses a few of Joker’s raids. Sometimes, when she comes back to her nighttime antics, she favors an ankle or keeps the handsprings to a minimum. He hates fighting her then, even more than he usually does.
Harley’s expression goes through enough emotions in a short time that Robin thinks he might have been nauseous if it were him. Anger, fear, humiliation, back to anger, and sadness before Harley just smiles in a way that Dick doesn’t quite understand.
“ ‘m not mad atcha. This time,” she clarifies, glancing at him sharply. The dim light from the fight below casts shadows over her pale face. “It’s… Grown up love can be complicated.”
Below them, something explodes. It’s not a large explosion, and both Batman’s muffled growl and the Joker’s shrill voice ring out afterward. Rather than change the subject or say anything at all, Robin just looks at Harley.
She laughs, the sound low and almost sticky. “It’s real creepy when you do that, ya know? Big glowin’ white eye patches.”
He keeps staring.
That smile settles back on her face and she lets out a long breath. “It’s like this, yeah? Some people got big hearts. Some got smaller ones. People like you an’ me, we got big ol hearts just burstin’ with love. Those two down there?” She nods down at the warehouse. “They got smaller ones. It’s harder to give as much love without feelin’ empty when the feelings jar’s just a bit smaller.”
Robin cocks his head. “Feelings jar?”
Harley shoves him lightly. “Shuddup, words ain’t my thing.”
Oddly, it’s a metaphor that makes a lot of sense to him.
“Anyway,” she continues, “Smaller jars don’t make bad people, not always. Just takes a little more work to love ‘em is all. For me, Mr. J’s worth that work. Make sense?”
He shakes his head honestly. Loving someone’s never been work, not for him. Not even with B. He loves his family. He loves Babs, Wally, and Roy, even if he’s only sure about Babs’ returning it. He loves Alfred. Daj always said love comes naturally to him. And no one he loves would ever hurt him like the Joker hurts Harley.
Harley is looking down at the skylight, but her eyes are unfocused. “Nah,” she says, absently. “Guess it wouldn’t.”
They’re out of water, have been for a long time. The packets are barely more than sips, only three ounces per pack. Harley is clutching hers in a grip so tight, her tendons are popping out.
From his tool belt, Robin grabs a tiny vial as long and thin as his pinky. “Hey, c’mere.”
She raises an eyebrow at him. “Suspicious, Boy Wonder.”
“I pinky promised,” he reminds her, showing her the vial. “Can I patch up your lip?”
Harley sticks out her tongue, then winces. “Liquid bandage tastes like shi--”
“Language!” Robin singsongs, shaking the vial in her face. “Please?”
There’s that confusing smile from her again, like she’s smiling because she’s sad. “Sure, peanut.”
The applicator is a “doe’s foot” like a lip gloss, so it’s easy to be careful and not jab it into the wounds on her bottom lip. With a few swipes, he’s able to stem the bleeding and patch the skin. B’s formula dries fast, so by the time Robin finishes putting it away, Harley is smacking her lips in delight.
“Ooh, bubblegum!”
Robin nods. “I mean, normal liquid bandage tastes like shi--”
He snickers as Harley smacks him gently on the back of the head.
The warehouse shakes with the power of this next explosion. Dust rains down in the warehouse, blocking the light and their view.
“Robin,” Agent A says, voice tinny through the tiny ear comm, “please report back to the Cave. Batman will follow suit shortly. A tank has ruptured within the warehouse, and your presence there is an unnecessary risk. Also, it nears two in the morning and you have a quiz in World History.”
Robin stands and stretches. “That’s my cue.”
Harley stands with him. “I’m gonna kick your butt next time, get me?”
When her eyes close for just a second during her own stretch, Robin bolts down the side of the building and cackles, making sure he does so near an empty trash can so the sound bounces all over the alley.
“No way,” Speedy-- or rather, Roy --says over Dick’s comms. “Arrow never even lets me patrol alone.”
“Yeah, that’s bull!” comes Wally’s voice.
Robin cackles, grapple securing around a gargoyle. He swings over a main street, an alley, a strip mall. “Guess I’m just that good, huh?”
Neither of them are out this late on a normal night. Tonight, they didn’t go out at all; Oliver had dinner with someone or other, and Barry is working late. Gotham’s built different, and Robin has to be too.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a child prodigy.” He can practically hear Wally rolling his eyes. “We get it, you think you’re better than us.”
Before Robin has a chance to deny that-- he has his strengths, sure, but so do they! --a shriek echoes from behind a nearby food truck.
“Got a complex about it, Baby Flash?” Roy teases.
Wally sputters. “Wha-- No, I--”
“I dunno,” Roy says. “Sounds like you’re jealous of the Boy Wonder.”
There’s a young boy being held by his shirt behind the truck. He looks about Robin’s age. The man holding him is waving a pair of tongs around.
“Evening everybody!” Robin says, ever chipper. He lands a few feet away, but makes no effort to break up the fight. “What seems to be the issue?”
Now that he’s up closer, the adult is in grease-stained clothes and an apron. The kid is wearing a faded blue t-shirt that might have once had Superman’s logo on it, and pants that don’t reach his ankles. He’s covered in grime, and Robin would be surprised if his shoes fit.
“This little rat,” the man snarls, “tried to pull one over on me. He ruined a whole batch of pork, sticking his grubby mitts in it.”
“Did not!” The kid squirms and kicks, trying to get himself free. “I was after a fry boat, not your crusty ass mystery meat. Didn’t even get that much. Let me go, you fat bastard!”
“See?” Wally gripes from across the country, “I could totally handle this!”
Robin steps forward, trying to project calm. “How ‘bout this? Let the kid go, and I’ll send some people your way tonight? I can’t do anything about the pork, but I’m sure someone’ll take it anyway.”
There are a couple of girls a few blocks down who are usually looking for a good spot to hang out with high foot traffic. They can help each other out.
The man looks between the kid and Robin. It takes a very tense moment, but the cook lowers the kid to the ground. “I see you again, you don’t wanna know what’ll happen. Get me?”
The kid sticks his tongue out and puts up his middle finger before running off into the nearest alley.
“Fuckin’ brat,” the man says, but Robin is already gone, having taken the opening to “vanish” around the corner in the opposite direction of the other kid.
“Y’know,” Roy muses over comms, “I always hear about Gotham being super crime-ridden, but all you’ve been doing all night is the usual stuff the rest of us do.”
“Not really what I expected when you invited us on a ridealong,” Wally agrees. “Not that I’m complaining, I don’t really want to sit by and listen to your freaky rogues monologuing.”
“The monologuing is the best part!” Robin says, scaling an apartment building. “Either they’re distracted enough to get suckerpunched, or I get to make ‘em look dumb.”
“Fair,” Wally admits.
Robin pauses at the top of the building. The icy winter air is bracing, and he has to keep moving unless he wants frostbite, but the thermal lining of his cape does wonders for short stops like this, draping around him and keeping his body heat close.
“You’re right, though,” he says, looking out at the sparkling city without stars. “It’s been pretty quiet tonight.”
“Maybe that’s why Daddy Bats let him go off alone,” Wally says.
Dick’s eye twitches under his mask at the nickname. He can’t even deny it, not when even the tiniest bit of information is considered a breach in confidentiality.
It’s not that Wally doesn’t have a point. Batman is out tonight as well, patrolling. He just let Robin go off and do his own thing for the first time. If anything serious does come up, Batman and Robin will both be there, just like they always would. And if there were movements from any of the bigwigs-- Two Face, Joker, even Penguin or Riddler --B wouldn’t have let him out of his sight.
But what the others don’t know-- aren’t allowed to know, given how classified it is --is that both Robin and B are big on anniversaries, and tonight is exactly one year since Robin’s debut.
It took more than two months for the public to realize that Batman had a partner now, since most of the sources were rogues muttering nonsense in Arkham. After Harley, Arkham’s visitation was strictly monitored and vetted. Most reporters didn’t even bother.
To the rest of the world, Robin’s debut was closer to February than early December.
But to him and B, tonight’s big. A whole year on the job. A year since B trusted him, deemed him and his actions worthy to fight by his side.
As of today, the legacy of the Flying Graysons has been upheld in the purest light Robin can muster. He’s using their skills to bring joy back to people who may have forgotten it, to remind them that hope gives everyone wings.
“Yeah, we know,” Roy says. “Still won’t tell us who he is to you, though, so we still get to joke.”
Robin rolls his eyes under the mask. Closer to you and Oliver than to Wally and Barry, he wants to say, but that’s so classified that it’s-- it’s uberclassified. Hyperclassified, even.
Something zips through the air, inches from Robin’s ear, and the graffiti on the next building over has a new crater in it, nearly three inches in diameter.
“On that note,” Robin says, whipping around in the direction the bullet came from, “I think you guys got your wish. Agent A?”
“Yes sir?” Alfred says immediately, evoking startled sounds from the other guys.
“I’ve got shots fired from the southwest. I’m at 4348 Roderick Place. Looks like a mid to high caliber, and I think it messed up my hair. In pursuit.”
“Understood, sir.”
The frost on the rooftops crunches under Robin’s boots. Adrenaline pumps through his veins. There are a lot of kinds of fun. There’s fun-fun, where the activity makes him happy to do and to think about later. There’s bad-fun, which makes for funny stories and not-great present times. Then there’s this: knowing that he’s running toward someone bad, not away. Toward someone who wants him to hurt-- or maybe even die, if that bullet was meant for him. Alfred knows where he is. B is on patrol. He’s-- well, maybe not safe, but in good hands.
It’s a thrill like no other.
It’s a leap with no net.
It’s--
“Robin, it appears to be high time you returned to base.”
He’s lucky he isn’t mid-grapple. Instead he nearly trips over his own feet and narrowly avoids a patch of black ice. “Sorry, what?”
“You are to return to the Cave. Do not engage.”
Wally holds a snicker back over the comm, barely, but his breathing gets unsteady and loud. Roy, at least, has the decency to mute himself. For his part, Robin thinks he does an excellent job ignoring them both.
“But--”
Alfred’s got “shoes on the chandelier” voice again. “You will not engage, sir. That bullet belonged to a suspect at or near the top of several government agencies’ most wanted lists. He is quite out of your league. I repeat, Robin. Batman’s orders are do not engage.”
The thing is-- The thing is, Robin knows many things at once. It’s kinda his calling card. He knows that he’s more skilled than either Alfred or B give him credit for. He knows his friends (probably? He’s pretty sure they like him, at least) are the same. He’s ten years old, and to them that’s a weakness.
He knows that when Alfred relays the information on the suspect to him, it’s to offer him information in exchange for obedience. And he knows, for a fact, that whoever this gunman is, he’d at least give them a good fight.
Practice is not a dirty word.
But he also knows that he’s not good enough, not yet. And if Alfred is being this insistent, there haven’t been any further gunshots, and Batman hasn’t checked in, then… He knows he’s probably not ready to disobey this order. Not yet.
Robin sighs. “Understood, Agent A. I’m en route. ETA twenty to twenty five minutes. Keep an eye on B.”
There’s about five minutes of radio silence. Robin makes himself focus on the basics; can’t misstep and slide on ice, can’t forget to test the grapple line with every shot. The cold bites through his kevlar, but he’s fine. Alfred will know if his vitals dip too far from windchill, and the movement is helping.
It’s only after he stops at the corner he was thinking about before-- the girls all call him “baby” and tell him they’re happy to find new clients --that anyone breaks it.
“A little warning would have been nice, by the way.”
What the heck is Wally complaining about now? Knowing him, it could be anything. “Warning?”
“About Jeeves?”
He scales a fire escape manually, just to keep things fresh and see how quietly he can do it. “What’s a Jeeves?”
To his credit, Roy has some experience with Dick Grayson, so he answers the question before Wally can. “The British guy.”
Masks on, so he catches the thank you that comes to his lips automatically. Roy might recognize it. Instead, Robin says, “I did warn you! Open comms, remember? That’s just Agent A.”
“Dude! ‘Open comms’ and ‘by the way someone else is listening’ are not the same thing,” Wally snorts.
“Yeah, Rob. Most of us are still adjusting to you working with Batman. How were we gonna know about your weird third teammate?”
That’s… “Fair,” he admits. “But B doesn’t know you guys are patched into comms, and someone should be on call for backup. It’s just logical.”
He can see Wayne Manor in the distance, and there’s Tony’s Deli on 12th, which means… that’s the alleyway manhole he needs. Switch to infrared lenses to make sure the coast is clear, fit that bit of metal into that divot on his boot, and Robin is underground, slipped away from the upper city in an instant.
It only affects comms slightly, a bit of fuzz on both ends.
“--does suck, though,” Roy is saying. “I was really looking forward to listening firsthand to one of those famous Gotham patrols.”
“There’ll be other times,” Robin says to himself as much as Roy. The tunnel is sturdy, but unfinished. The walls are hard-packed earth with wood braces every few feet. B has plans to pave it at some point. “Besides, I get that he’s being careful. I’m only--”
He cuts himself off. Classified information.
“Only what?” Wally asks. At least now the teasing sounds less bitter. “Only a little guy?”
Robin sniffs in dismissal, but doesn’t acknowledge him.
Roy is the one who finally asks. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever asked. How old are you? I’m fourteen.”
“I turned twelve on the first!” Wally offers.
Robin’s breath catches in his throat. That’s his birthday. He just turned ten on the first. How… How freaking cool is that! He wishes he could tell them.
“Oh cool! Like this month? Happy late birthday, man.”
“Happy birthday!” he says instead. “Did you do anything fun?”
“Not to brag,” Wally absolutely brags, sounding smug, “But guess who got himself officially ungrounded for life? That’s right, it’s me.”
“You were grounded?” Robin asks. The tunnel is unlit, off the grid. Infrared lenses are always a fun time long term-- if he ignored the headache.
“Like, super grounded. The most grounded of any grounding that has ground.”
Roy snorts. “What’d you do, Kid?”
“Your man,” says Wally, and Robin can almost hear him pointing with his thumbs, “gave himself superpowers and became… Kid Flash.”
Robin snorts. He’d also been grounded, sort of, when he decided to become a hero. He imagines Wally’s parents had something more traditional in mind than fourteen hour schooldays.
But giving himself powers, likely in the same way Flash did? Robin doesn’t remember what the listed odds were of replication, but they’re-- what’s that word B uses? Astronomical. Good word.
“You know, I can see why they grounded you,” Robin says. “Kid Flash? Kid Idiot, more like.”
“Come on, it’s his birthday!” Roy says, notably not disagreeing.
“Listen!” Wally protests. “I survived! I was pretty sure I would. But… this once, I’ll allow it. It was pretty dumb.”
“Still not worth giving up a birthday for, if you ask me,” Roy says. “How about you, Rob? When’s your birthday?”
“Oh yeah, and how old are you? Speedy and I have a bet.”
“And me and Oliver have one too.”
“Can’t tell you,” Robin says automatically. The tunnel is widening now. Bats hide in the darkness of the ceiling, making multicolored polka dots on the infrared lenses.. “Batman’s orders. Somewhere between eight and thirteen.”
His footfalls are starting to echo slightly. The others groan in frustration-- they’ve been trying to get their “insider knowledge” of both Robin and Batman for ages. Speedy says he wants to rub it in Oliver’s face that he knows more about them. Wally says it’s a trust thing, since Barry’s identity is Central’s worst kept secret and nothing’s happened to them.
Robin hasn’t even brought it up. He knows what B would say, whether he asked Bruce or the Bat.
When he enters the Batcave, Alfred has a profile up on one monitor and a live feed of Batman’s cowl on another. The headshot on the file is of an old guy-- probably, anyway, since his hair is white and he has a beard --with an eyepatch. It’s not a mugshot, which is odd, and he seems to be dressed in formal military gear of some kind. The live feed shows Bruce going blow for blow with someone in a black and orange mask.
Before Robin can get a clear look at either monitor, Alfred puts the screens to sleep and turns in his chair.
“Twenty two minutes,” he says approvingly. “Well done.”
Ah. Another test. “Thanks, A.”
“There is a small portion of curry and rice in the oven. Please finish it and try to get some rest, sir.” He glances meaningfully at Robin and points to one ear.
“Sure,” Robin says. “Gotta go, guys.”
“Thank god I didn’t break first,” Wally yawns. “It’s like, one thirty in the morning.”
“Must suck not to live out west,” Roy says, smug.
It’s the fact that Roy is the only one who doesn’t get it that makes that funny. Also that Wally thinks he’s the only one that does get it.
“Good night... weaklings.”
They each squawk like indignant birds, and Robin makes sure the laugh they hear is a cackle when he hangs up on them. If he didn’t get to do anything big on patrol, that’s fine, he reasons. It means no one was hurt, no villains escaped, and he got to hang out with… yeah.
They’re his friends.