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Before Batman, Bruce had never particularly had any urges to jump off buildings. He hadn’t even been much of a tree-climber as a kid. It had all been taught, learned, the way the air rushed around you, how to move your body so that gravity didn’t snatch you away. He could do from muscle memory now, reacting instantaneously, but it was never instinct, not really.
Not the way it was for Dick, who, true to his Robin title, took the sky with ease. He’d grown up in the air, it was only natural. He was young, but trained well. So Bruce wasn’t entirely sure why his stomach sank every time Robin disappeared over the edge, why he had the urge to jump after, follow, to make sure he was safe.
He trusted Dick, and Batman trusted Robin. Sure, the kid could be a little reckless at times, and a show off, but Bruce didn’t need to be breathing down his neck and chasing him off the sides of buildings all the time. Not that Bruce did that—he’d managed fairly well at controlling his instincts so far.
He’d mentioned it in passing one day to Alfred, after a particularly nasty encounter with the Joker had sent Dick flipping off the tallest building in Gotham. That time, Bruce caved, gave into his instinct to follow, to make sure, and let the Joker go to follow his boy. Alfred had just smiled and patted his shoulder, like he was in on some secret Bruce was missing.
"You’ll get used to it," he said. Bruce wasn’t so sure.