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“B,” Dick whines, collapsing dramatically into Bruce’s side. The boy’s eyes flutter as he struggles to keep them open. “I’m tired.” His words come out mildly slurred, the result of a sleep schedule timed to the rhythm of a diurnal child. But Robin must fly at night and can’t be subject to the restrictions of an eight-year-old.
Bruce gently prods Dick, pushing him back into his seat. They’re sitting side by side at the Batcomputer, Bruce with his boots planted solidly on the floor and Dick hugging his knees with his socked feet pulled up onto the seat of his too-big chair. “If you want to quit,” Bruce says, “be my guest.”
Dick groans at Bruce but pinches himself to stay awake.
See, Dick is all for this idea—until it actually comes time to stay up. And then, he’s constantly falling asleep, with Bruce having to catch him every few minutes so he doesn’t drift off. Bruce feels bad when Dick slinks downstairs in the mornings, eyes drooping and expression dazed, but…
Robin can currently only patrol until eleven before he gets exhausted, and he can’t stay awake long after 12:30. But Batman stays out for several more hours. Friday evening patrols usually run until dawn, and Robin is long asleep by then, no matter how much sugar Bruce gives him on patrol. It’s interfering with the Mission. And Dick’s a good kid. He doesn’t want to prevent Batman from finishing his patrols—he wants to help, not hinder.
Batman can’t afford to have a partner who falls asleep like a pumpkin at midnight.
Plus, eight-year-olds are supposed to get ten hours of sleep a night, and that’s just not feasible with six hours of patrol, seven hours of school, and time for training, homework, and friends. Without ten hours of sleep, Dick gets cranky like a young child. He is a young child, on the surface. But he can’t be a young child and Robin at the same time.
Bruce wishes it wasn’t like this. He wishes Dick could have a normal sleep schedule and be Robin. But he can’t. So, using a combination of meditation techniques Bruce learned in his travels and a steady transition to later bedtimes, Bruce has been getting Dick used to the late patrol hours and lack of sleep that comes with being a nighttime vigilante.
Dick’s head is resting on his shoulder again. “Dick,” Bruce says softly, and Dick’s eyes snap open. “Not yet.”
Bruce hates this. But it’s necessary. And Dick—when in his right mind—is in agreement.
“Give up,” Dick mumbles. “Can practice tomorrow.”
“No,” Bruce says firmly. “If we break the schedule, you’ll relapse. There are just ten minutes left.”
“Lemme sleep.”
Bruce lifts Dick off the Batcomputer chair and places him on his feet. He’s so light. Not for the first time, Bruce wonders if maybe he’s making the wrong—
No. Dick needs this. And he’s taken to the training so well. Not just the sleep schedule modifications, but the grappling gun, the fighting style, the jokes and creepy laughter that distract his enemies. At eight, Dick can already take down several grown men without breaking a sweat. And beyond his pure skill, he’s so compassionate and altruistic for an eight-year-old. As a child, Bruce just wanted his parents’ killer dead. He sought vengeance, at first, not justice. Dick, on the other hand, just wants to help.
He's a bright spark in Gotham’s darkness, cartwheeling across Her rooftops, and Bruce won’t smother that.
And this is for Dick’s sake, too. Dick doesn’t ask for anything except this one thing, this one chance to do good. All of Bruce’s money, and Dick just desperately wants to put on a traffic-light costume and fight crime. In the first few weeks, Bruce would’ve given anything just to get Dick to smile. He let Dick eat nothing but chips for several days, because it was the only food Dick had expressed any interest in whatsoever. Dick loves being Robin, loves this outlet for his anger and his energy and his love, all rolled into one.
How could Bruce deny him that, when he himself takes to the sky every night?
The alarm on the Batcomputer rings and Dick finally gives fully into his exhaustion, slumping against Bruce. Bruce picks him up again, carrying the child easily in his arms, and walks up the Batcave’s steps into the Manor. Dick stirs, curling towards Bruce like a heat-seeking missile. “Good job,” Bruce tells him with a faint smile. The echo of that smile appears across Dick’s face. Even half-asleep, Dick still smiles more brightly than Bruce could ever hope to achieve.
He's me, Bruce thought, when the Flying Graysons fell. That boy is me and I’m him and I need to help.
And now, Bruce thinks, he’s me, but better. Far better than I was, will ever be.
Slowly, Bruce opens the door to Dick’s room—his own childhood bedroom—and tucks him in. He goes to turn off the light, but Dick clutches the blanket close and whispers, “Leave the light on.”
Right. How could Bruce forget? Robin can become one with the night, preying on the criminal element from the shadows just like Batman does. Dick Grayson, on the other hand, is just a tiny bit scared of the dark.
“You don’t need the light,” Bruce tells him. Dick shakes his head—or maybe he just burrows into his pillows. With a frown, Bruce leaves the light on. He’ll talk to Dick about it later.
Outside Dick’s room, Alfred greets Bruce, taking him by surprise. Unless Bruce is doing something particularly dangerous or needs Cave support, Alfred has usually retired by this late in the night. A butler wakes up early, after all, and even Alfred needs a human amount of sleep, although he certainly compresses that number to the minimum.
“Alfred,” Bruce says, voice hushed, hoping that he communicates the need for quiet. He doesn’t want to force Dick to stay up any later than scheduled.
Alfred walks downstairs to Bruce’s study, and Bruce follows, concerned. Before he moves the clock’s hands, though, Alfred clears his throat. Bruce is immediately attentive. When Alfred has something to say, it’s usually extremely essential that he listen. “Master Bruce,” Alfred says quietly. “I fear you are making a grave mistake.”
Usually being the operative word. Bruce feels his face grow hard, even as his chest grows cold. Can’t Alfred see? The boy, kneeling in the puddle of his parents’ blood, a tumor of rage growing in his heart. “He needs this,” Bruce says, barely refraining from a growl.
“Master Dick is eight years old. He needs his guardian to tuck him into bed at night, not train him to confront terrifying villains.”
“I did just tuck him in,” Bruce says. Alfred, when raising Bruce, stuck to strict notions of propriety. He was his guardian, but his butler too, and the rigid structure created sometimes-insurmountable barriers. But Robin is Batman’s equal, even at only eight-years-old, and none of those barriers exist here. Bruce can be his legal guardian and his mentor and his friend and his partner all at once.
“After forcing him to remain awake far past an eight-year-old’s reasonable bedtime.”
“Forcing him?” Bruce shakes his head and begins pacing. “Dick wants to do this.”
“At eight, you wanted a real sword, twenty scoops of ice cream, and the car keys, and you were allowed none of these,” Alfred reminds him.
But Bruce was a frivolous child. Dick, on the other hand, is practical. He wants to fight crime. And he truly understands what that means, the sacrifice it requires. Even with that knowledge, Dick swore the Oath by candlelight with a clear, certain voice.
Alfred would not interrupt Bruce. But Bruce hasn’t responded yet, so now Alfred speaks again, doubling down. “I know you have the best of intentions. But what you are doing, Master Bruce, is hurting the boy.”
Bruce bristles. “I,” he says, struggling to keep his tone level, “would never hurt him.” The moment Bruce saw the horror on Dick’s face, he knew he had to help. He knew that he was Dick but ruined and Dick was him but not yet ruined. Bruce has a chance to save Dick from the same fate he himself suffered—a lonely childhood, a bitter crusade, and Gotham’s steady rot eating away at his sanity. Endless darkness, until he happened across a tiny spark of light.
“Not purposefully,” Alfred concedes. He closes his eyes and runs a hand along the wood backing of the chair where Bruce’s father used to sit. “I have been to war. And your Mission is, no doubt, a war. I will warn you that children are ill-suited to such things.”
Wars are guns and death. Gotham has plenty of both, but none of them are wielded by Batman and Robin. “Dick needs an outlet,” Bruce says, trying to convey the finality of his words. “He needs Robin.”
“Does he? Or do you need Robin?”
Bruce opens his mouth, then closes it again. Swallows. “Both,” he says thickly. “We both need Robin.”
But can’t Alfred see that Bruce is doing this for Dick, and for Dick alone? Giving the child what he could never have—a friend, an outlet, a purpose that isn’t solely revenge?
Alfred just shakes his head.
“Alfred,” Bruce says, “I’ve been through what he’s experienced. I know. I understand. And this is what Dick needs. He loves being Robin. And his sleep schedule will be a non-issue soon enough, once he adjusts.”
Bruce tries to see this from Alfred’s perspective. Dick is young, and small, and light. He smiles and does random cartwheels and wants the light on at night. But he isn’t a child. Not after he watched his parents die. Not after he chose to go after their killer. Not after he swore the Oath. And Alfred just doesn’t understand that.
Bruce does.
“I’m his legal guardian,” Bruce says eventually. It’s a dirty tactic, subtly reminding Alfred of his self-imposed restrictions. Alfred is a butler, and Bruce is Dick’s guardian. But Alfred—Alfred thinks that Bruce is tearing Dick apart, when he’s only trying to build him up. And that stings, far more than simple accusations of recklessness or mild insanity. “I’m just trying to help him. I swear.”
Do you? Asks a small voice in his head. Are you sure? Are you certain you’re not just trying to steal the sun just to hoard its light?
“Your objections,” Bruce adds, “have been noted.”
There’s a brief moment, where Bruce thinks that Alfred might challenge him further. But then Alfred dips his head and produces a feather duster out of nowhere. Bruce continues down to the cave. He resets the alarms to be ten minutes later the next night and pulls up a case.
Alfred’s voice echoes in his head, words garbled beyond recognition but tone too cutting to be anything other than a dreadful condemnation.
Bruce feels a twinge of fear. Does he really know, for sure, that he’s doing the right thing?
Dick asked Bruce to leave the light on, so Bruce did, as foolish as it is. He’s not pushing Dick any further than the boy can handle. And Dick wants to be Robin, needs to be Robin.
Once Dick gets used to taking two carefully-measured three-hour naps and spending an hour meditating—a routine adapted for a child’s unique needs from something one of Bruce’s mentors taught him—he’ll be fine. And it’s not like fighting crime is traumatizing him. Dick maintains his cheerful disposition even in the face of the worst criminals.
He’s amazing. He’s a survivor. He’s as brilliant as the sun.
He’s me, but unimaginably better.
Are you sure? Bruce asks himself, one last time.
Yes, Bruce decides, crushing his doubts into oblivion. I’m sure.