Archive of Our Own

Gunpowder. Sweat. Blood in his mouth. The taste of it metallic and bitter as he crouched low, arms locked around the shuddering little girl in his lap. Her sobs were loud, wet, panicked—snot and tears and hiccupy gasps, her small fingers tangled in the fabric of his cape.

His heartbeat was everywhere. Throbbing in his throat, hammering behind his eyes, pulsing through every bruise and scrape.

She was safe.

He did that.

Screw the mission.

Screw protocol. 

Screw everything else.

"It's okay," he whispered, barely aware of the words spilling out of his mouth. "You're safe. I got you. You're okay now.”

She couldn’t have been older than six. And if he’d waited, if he’d hesitated for one more second, stayed back and did as he was ordered, not engaging, just reporting, playing the lookout… If he'd stood down when Bruce barked the order through the comm the second he shot down to the alley to snatch her, she’d be gone. In the back of that truck. Vanished.

A shadow hit the rooftop. Heavy footfalls . The cape snap he knew too well.

And suddenly all that adrenaline flipped. Pride twisted into dread.

Dick didn't need to look to know what was coming.

“ROBIN!”

The shout cracked like thunder. The girl jumped, clinging tighter, and Dick’s spine straightened like he’d been shocked.

“Stop yelling,” he snapped, eyes flashing up to meet Bruce’s. “You’re scaring her.”

He turned to Diana instead—goddess of truth, savior of the vulnerable. She met his gaze and nodded gently as he passed the girl into her arms.

“You're safe,” Dick whispered. “Wonder Woman’s got you. Promise.”

Then he turned to face the storm. The night. The freaking bat-shaped vengeance. 

Bruce was stomping across the rooftop, cowl-shadowed eyes burning holes into him, jaw set like concrete.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” he seethed. “You went off-mission, blew the operation, and engaged when you were meant to observe. Ignored me when I told you to stand down! Do you have any idea how much you risked—”

“I saved someone!” Dick shouted back, stepping forward. “A kid! You think I’m gonna stand there with my thumb up my ass while she’s dragged away?!”

“You compromised the entire mission!” Bruce snapped. “The ring scattered. Leads gone. Traffickers in the wind. You let them get away.”

“What was I supposed to do, B?” Dick yelled, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. “Wave goodbye and hope the next kid’s luckier?!”

“It. wasn’t. your. call.”

There it was. The wall. The rule. The unbreakable Bat-line. You don’t question the mission. You don’t improvise. You follow the plan like a good little soldier.

Dick’s heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else out. And still— still —he felt their eyes on him. Diana. Clark. J’onn. Ollie. Watching him get dressed down like he was some reckless brat. Embarrassment flared in his chest, hot and green and yellow like his costume.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dick snarled. “I didn't realize I spent months upon months brutally training to be the damn lookout kid who’s supposed to keep his mouth shut!”

“You were the lookout tonight,” Batman growled, stepping closer. “Because that’s what I assigned you. Because you’re thirteen . And you ignored the plan we spent weeks crafting.”

Dick clenched his fists so hard his gloves creaked. “Maybe if you actually trusted me—”

“I did trust you. To follow orders,” Batman bit out. “And tonight, you proved I can’t even count on that.”

The words hit like a slap to the face.  

It wasn’t about the op. It wasn’t about the girl. It was about him . About how no matter what he did, it would never be enough.

Superman stepped forward. “Batman, maybe this isn’t—”

“Stay out of it,” Bruce barked, eyes never leaving Dick’s.

“Wow,” Dick sneered. “Real classy. Chew your partner out in front of the Justice League. Bet you feel like a big man now, huh?”

“You were not my partner tonight,” Bruce said quietly. Deadly. “You were a liability.”

And that—that landed like a punch in the gut. 

Dick froze, the wind knocked out of him without a single touch.

“Fuck you, B,” he spat before he could stop it. “You wanna act like I’m just some mistake in a cape? Fine. You can go fu —”

“Enough!” Bruce’s voice exploded across the rooftop, and suddenly Dick wasn’t Robin anymore—he was just some kid getting yelled at by a man who didn’t even see how much he was hurting him.

“You’re benched. Effective immediately,” Bruce growled. “You’ll return to the Cave and hand over your suit to A.” He turned toward Clark. “Superman, get him out of here. Now. Update agent A about Robin being benched.”

“The fuck he will,” Dick yelled, tears pricking at his eyes, voice now trembling, but he was beyond giving a flying fuck. “You can’t just send me home, like a fucking toddler sent for a time-out!” he shouted.

“ Watch me!”

Before he could blink, Bruce had him by the arm, dragging him across the roof.

“Let go of me!” Dick struggled, trying to twist out of his grip. “You’re not my fucking father, B!”

“No,” Bruce said, shoving him toward Clark. “But I’m the one who has to live with the consequences when you get yourself killed.”

That landed hard too. 

And the worst part was that deep down, it almost sounded like care. Like something his dad would tell him while scolding him after catching him practicing a stunt he wasn't supposed to be trying.

“I HATE YOU!” Dick screamed, tears stinging his eyes now, voice hoarse with rage.

“I’ll survive,” Bruce replied, flat as a gravestone. “You can add that to the list of things you’ll reflect on while grounded.”

Clark didn’t say a word as he scooped Dick up and took off. 

The rooftop vanished beneath them. All Dick could feel was shame and rage burning hot and wild. In his chest. His throat. His everything.  His hero, Superman , assigned to take him to his time out like an errant kid, was just the cherry on top of this shitcake.

By the time they reached the cave, Dick was already shoving away from Clark mid-descent, landing roughly and storming off before the man of steel could say a word. He could hear Alfred calling after him. “Master Grayson, stop right there—”

Dick didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. He was done.

Done being handled.

Done being talked over.

Done being benched.

He slammed his bedroom door shut and locked it just as Alfred reached the hall. He could hear Clark quietly debriefing him. 

“Young master, open this door. I need your suit.”

Dick didn’t answer. Just walked to his dresser, staring at his reflection at the mirror hanging above it. Stared at the R on his chest.

The symbol he’d bled for. The one Bruce had given him.

He ripped it off.

The tracker pinged once before it fizzled.

The comm got yanked off next. 

Dick opened the window, the wind cold against his sweaty skin, and waited long enough for superman's figure to shoot through the sky. 

Behind his door Alfred was threatening to get his skeleton key if he didn't open up right that instant.

Let him. 

Let Alfred look for the stupid key and barge in and find him gone and let Bruce rage. 

Dick didn’t care. 

He wasn't a kid anymore. 

He was a soldier. 

He was Robin. 

He stepped on the window sill, spread his arms wide and with a wild grimace that could be mistaken for a grin, he  leapt into the night.

Gotham nights smelled like rage, gasoline, and blood.

The city was ugly. Raw. Wild. Always on the edge of burning itself alive. It wasn’t clean like Metropolis, or wise like Themyscira, or gilded like Central. It was a snarling, rotting thing that bit back when you bled on it. 

And Dick loved that.

Maybe because Gotham looked like the inside of his head most nights—broken glass and bruised skies and blinking neon. It looked like rage. That rage that nestled deep inside and was a part of him now. Maybe the biggest. 

Bruce kept trying. Hard. Kept telling him to let go of it—the anger, the darkness—like it was something you could just drop at your feet and walk away from.

“Time,” he kept saying. “Training. Guidance. You’ll learn. You’ll grow.”

Bruce said a lot of things.

Most of them were bullshit.

Like the words from earlier that wouldn't stop clawing at his brain. Pulsing in his ears, in his ribs, timed to his heartbeat.

You were not my partner.

You were a liability. 

The yelling. The distrust. The way Bruce’s voice had cracked—not with fear for him, but with disappointment. Like Dick was some stupid stray he'd wasted his time picking up.

He shot his grapple into the thick rusty mist of the skyline, and jumped.

He swung like a pendulum, arching through Gotham’s sickly light, steam grates coughing up ghost-breath. He landed silently, owl-light on the next roof.

Below, shadows were moving. Not the city's, not its ghosts. But men. Humans —but only barely. Because only monsters could do to kids what these pieces of filth did.

Ten of them. Maybe eleven.

Leather jackets, boots, glints of metal under streetlight. Guns, crowbars. A minivan parked nearby. 

He didn’t know for sure they were linked to the traffickers from earlier, but knowing wasn't really the point.

He felt it.

And that was enough.

They would help him prove his point. 

His point. 

He was capable. 

He could handle himself. 

He could finish this.

He could prove Bruce was wrong.

Wrongwrongwrong.

His fingers flexed in his gloves. His knuckles ached for impact. His heart was a snarling beast in his chest, begging for a fight, for something he could smash to make it stop hurting so much.

He’d make it clear.

He wasn’t a kid.

He wasn’t a mistake.

He wasn't a liability.

He was Robin.

And he was about to remind Gotham—and Bruce—just how wrong they were about him.

Dick dropped down hard into the middle of the street, no soundless landing this time. A crack of boots against wet concrete. Eleven heads snapped up. 

For one second, nobody moved.

Then they started to grin.

Dick  grinned right back. Heart hammering, fists curling, the heat inside screaming for release.

He had this.

He ducked the first swing easy, fast and loose like he was back on the trapeze, flipping low and driving his knee into a guy’s gut. Another came at him with a crowbar—he twisted out of the way, grabbed the guy’s wrist, and snapped the weapon from his hand, sending it skittering across the asphalt.

"C'mon," Dick taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "You’re gonna have to do better than that, dumbasses."

For a minute, everything felt under control. They were slow. Sloppy. Street toughs, nothing more. Nothing special. They had nothing over his training. 

Dick was better. Faster. Smarter.

Another two down. One to the knee, one to the temple. 

Dick spun and ducked and God, it felt good, felt right, like he was dancing, like he was flying, like he was born to do this —the rage bleeding out with every hit he landed, making him feel like he could actually breathe again.

Because he was showing them. 

He was showing Bruce. 

He was showing his own self. 

He was showing Gotham. 

He was worth his suit. 

He was not a liability. 

He was not some stupid kid.

He was Robin. 

Then things shifted. Maybe the thugs caught up to his MO. Or maybe they decided they were done entertaining him. 

They didn’t come at him one-on-one anymore. They closed ranks. Tightened.

And Dick—sweaty, breathing too hard already, body aching with adrenaline—started realizing he wasn’t bouncing back as fast as he thought. The hits that caught him made him stagger now. 

Two punches made his vision blur, sent him slamming on a wall. Then a hit landed across his ribs, heavy and brutal.

He gasped. Tried to twist away, but someone grabbed his cape, yanking him backwards into a punch that cracked across his jaw.

He went down on one knee.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

He rolled, shaking the stars from the corners of his eyes, ducking another blow meant for his head.

Five still standing. 

And they smelled blood.

His blood, that was already dripping down his nose. 

"Little freak’s not so tough now," one jeered, circling.

Dick wiped the blood from his face with the back of his glove and grinned anyway. "Come and see, assholes."

They obliged.

The next minute was a blur. Hits landing harder, faster, from every direction. And Dick's body was slowing. Chest burning for air. Arms trembling as he strived to block a blow that rattled through his bones.

He caught a flash of metal—knife—barely dodged it. 

A knee to his gut folded him in half, and he dropped to the filthy concrete, wheezing.

One of them raised a pipe above his head. Aiming for Dick's skull.

Shit . 

He jerked his arms up to block but he knew, knew, he wasn’t fast enough—

—and then a shadow slammed down from the sky, knocking the guy flying ten feet into a trash heap.

Black deep as the night towering over the goons. Shielding Dick. 

Batman .

Relief and nerves seized Dick at the same time. 

The street boomed with the sound of impact, the ground vibrating under Dick’s palms as Bruce exploded into the gang like storm and thunder.

Next second, another shadow—brighter—landed beside them. Superman. Calm and devastating, snapping weapons like twigs.

Dick lay there blinking up at the red and black capes, stunned. It all ended just as fast as it started. 

Then powerful hands dragged him up by his tunic, hauling him upright.

“Are you hurt?” Bruce's question was frantic. Frantic . Dick gaped at him as he ran trembling — trembling — hands over him, checking his bones, his head, his face. 

“Did they hit your head? Are you okay ?” 

Dick managed to get out a strained, quiet, “I'm fine.”

There was a beat of complete silence. Only bated breaths and a worried gaze through the cowl. Worry that melted into fear and anger and then—

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!"

Batman's voice, furious and loud enough to shake the alley walls.

Dick flinched.

Bruce didn't let go. He gripped Dick's shoulders, stooping until they were eye-level. The cowl shadowed his eyes, his jaw was clenched, mouth tight.

"You could have been killed," Bruce ground out. "You almost got killed. You ditched your comm, you destroyed your tracker, you abandoned base protocol, you put yourself in a kill box— alone ."

Dick opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to say he was fine. He wanted to say he was not a kid and that he'd have been fine anyway. 

But his throat squeezed shut.

"And for what?" Bruce’s voice dropped dangerously low. "To prove a point? To throw a tantrum ?"

"I had it," Dick rasped, even as his hands trembled. "I—I was fine—"

" You were about to die!"

The shout echoed. 

Even Superman winced.

Before Dick could realize what was happening, Bruce yanked him forward by the wrist, turned him slightly, and smacked him—sharp and loud and hard —across the seat of his suit.

Dick gasped, shocked, cheeks flaming hotter than the blood in his veins.

Another swat landed. Not the brute force Dick knew Bruce was capable of—but hard as fuck. The sting tingled and bloomed.

"You do not throw your life away," Bruce hissed into his ear. Another swat. "Not for anything. Not ever. You hear me?"

Dick barely managed a nod, blinking furiously, jaw locked so hard it ached. His hands curled into fists, not to fight Bruce—but to keep from crying.

Not here.

Not in front of Clark.

Clark, who had stepped back, tactfully pretending to study the unconscious gang members.

"I trusted you to know better," Bruce said, voice raw now, trembling. "You—" His hands tightened once more on Dick's shoulders. "You are not expendable."

Dick swallowed thickly, rage and fight bleeding out of him all at once, replaced by something worse.

Guilt.

Fear.

Relief.

Then Bruce pulled him into a rough, crushing hug—armor cold and hard—and Dick stood there stiffly for a second before his arms jerkily lifted and wrapped around Bruce’s waist, clutching like he was going to drown.

"I’m sorry, B," Dick choked, voice muffled against the Kevlar.

Bruce exhaled—shaky, almost broken—and cradled Dick's head. 

"You’re going to be," he said, grimly and quietly with an unshakable resolve that made Dick's stomach drop. 

"We are having a very serious conversation, when we get home. And only half of it will involve actual talking.”

Dick’s face blazed hotter, but he felt himself nodding numbly, suddenly acutely aware of how much those three swats had stung. 

Behind Bruce's figure, he caught a glimpse of Clark giving him a small, kind look—and very deliberately looking away again, giving them the dignity of privacy even here, in this grimy alley of Gotham.

Dick closed his eyes and just let himself breathe, shaking, tucked into Bruce’s armor.

Safe.

Stupid.

Alive.

Bruce squeezed him tightly to him one last time, before breaking the embrace and turning him around. 

“Batmobile. Now ,” Bruce ordered, voice like steel. Another sharp swat landed across Dick’s backside, making him yelp and stumble forward; Bruce propelled him toward the car, and Dick scurried to get inside, cheeks aflame.

The Batmobile was silent. Too silent.

Dick sat hunched in the passenger seat, arms crossed, face half-turned to the window though there was nothing but darkness rushing past. The sharp, residual burn in his backside pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His lip stung. His ribs ached. His pride? Obliterated.

Three swats. In front of Clark. And worse—he’d cried. In Bruce’s arms. Like a little kid. He clenched his jaw, blinking furiously.

He had been sorry. In that alley. When Bruce held him like he was made of glass, when his voice cracked with fear and something rawer. Dick had meant it when he apologized.

But that had been minutes ago.

And now, in the cocooned, vibrating quiet of the Batmobile, something was curling tight in his chest. Something sour and sharp, knotting with every passing second.

The guilt was still there, sure—but something else was swelling under it. Heat. Bitterness.

Bruce hadn’t said a word since they'd buckled in. Not one.

He’d just stared ahead, lips pressed tight, white-knuckling the steering yoke like he was holding back another lecture. Dick could still feel the weight of Bruce’s hand on his shoulder. Could still hear the echo of You are not expendable.

Then why the hell hadn’t B acted like it before? Where had Bruce been this whole year, while Dick tried to hold it together with a smile and a grapnel line?

Now he cared?

Now he showed up?

Dick shifted in the seat, biting back a wince as the pressure flared in his butt again. His stomach turned with embarrassment—and fury. He pressed a fist to his mouth and glared hard at the dashboard.

If Bruce wanted to start playing dad now, he was way too late.

The Cave felt colder than usual as Dick stepped out of the Batmobile.

He trudged behind Bruce, steps echoing off stone and steel, jaw tight and heart thudding with leftover adrenaline and humiliation. His body ached. His knuckles throbbed. His backside still stung from Bruce's swats, and Superman's sympathetic look when he’d been handled like a toddler was seared into his brain forever.

But nothing—and Dick meant nothing —could’ve prepared him for the look on Alfred’s face when he turned from the med station.

Not angry. Not disappointed. But a terrifying, calm, quietly livid expression that said Dick was about to get obliterated with a verbal machete.

“Do either of you have the faintest clue what I’ve been through these past two hours?” Alfred asked, his tone sharper than a batarang, arms folded as though presiding over a disciplinary tribunal.

Dick shrugged. “I mean—”

“No,” Alfred cut in, the single syllable cracking in the Cave. “ Not a word .  I have cleaned up after every mess you two have left in your warpath for over a year now —patching holes in walls, laundering blood from monogrammed linens, excusing the unexplainable to the help we had to let go of or the social services— but tonight’s little performance truly deserves a standing ovation.”

Dick dared a small eye roll, but at Alfred's single step toward him, he immediately took two steps backwards. 

Alfred’s eyes burned him like lasers. “Master Richard. Would you like to explain to me what possessed you to run off into the night without backup, communication, or even your tracker, after being explicitly told to return home and hand over your suit?”

Dick crossed his arms, trying to appear casual and confident. “I dunno. Maybe because your boss had me benched like a toddler and I didn’t feel like rotting in my room while scumbags crawled around my city.”

Alfred marched straight up to Dick, who backtracked some more, then pinched Dick's chin firmly, tilting his face to the light.

“Split lip. Swollen eye. Three grazes I can see through the tear in your suit. How many ribs?” he asked flatly, letting go.

“I’m fine,” Dick snapped. “Just a few hits. You should see the other guys.”

“I imagine the 'other guys' were armed. And had backup. And criminal records. And fully formed frontal lobes,” Alfred snapped. “And could have easily killed you, master Richard!” 

Dick huffed. “Geez, Alf, thanks for the vote of confidence. I wasn’t gonna die. I had it handled.”

Bruce let out a noise behind him—something between a scoff and a growl—and Alfred’s glare shifted like a laser turret.

“And you,” he said, turning to Bruce now, eyes narrowing. “Have no one to blame but yourself. You created this monster.”

“Excuse me?” Bruce said tightly, shoulders squaring.

“You heard me fine! You parade him through hellish training, you give him a cape and a symbol and a city’s worth of guilt—and then expect him to behave like a well-adjusted schoolboy when he’s thirteen, grieving, and half-feral on rage and desperation to prove himself? I’ve watched you let things go, turning blind eyes to misbehaviour, time and again, master Bruce, and this — tonight —is the result.”

Dick glared at the floor. “You could’ve at least waited till I left the room before talking about me like I’m not standing right here.”

“We wouldn’t have to talk about you at all, if you didn’t act so recklessly, needlessly risking your life, young man,” Alfred said crisply.

Dick knew it wasn’t a good idea to push. He knew it. But he couldn't help himself. Nor did he want to. All the guilt he'd felt at the alley had dissipated, indignation and embarrassment wrecking havoc inside. 

“Cool lecture, Alfie. Maybe next time write it down so I can skip the live performance.”

Alfred’s mouth went razor-thin.

Dick pressed on, arms still crossed, voice all faux innocence. “I mean, it’s not your fault you’ve been stuck playing Bat-butler for so long you forgot what it’s like to actually do something. Maybe if you'd ever left the Cave for more than groceries, you’d get why I couldn’t just sit on my ass while kids were being kidnapped.”

Alfred stiffened like he'd been slapped. But it was Dick's ass that was actually slapped. Hard. Harder than in the alley.

Bruce’s voice cracked out louder than his swat. “ That’s enough . You don't talk to Alfred like that. Ever . Am I understood?” 

Dick whipped around to glare at Bruce, a hand instinctively snaking to clutch his smacked buttock. He didn't reply, just burned holes to Bruce's face, now uncowled and somehow even more ominous. 

Bruce’s lips pursed tighter and he unleashed one more smack, this time to his exposed from the short uniform thigh. It tore an involuntary yelp out of Dick. 

“Am I understood, Richard Grayson?” 

“Yes sir,” Dick ground out. 

“Apologize,” Bruce ordered next, eyes blazing so intensely Dick's defiance was torched to ashes. 

Dick, face burning, turned to Alfred and managed to meet his eyes. “I'm sorry, Alf.”

“Apology accepted,” Alfred replied marginally softer. 

Bruce stepped forward then.  “Good. Now, corner.”

“What—?”

“You heard me,” Bruce said, pointing to the far side of the cave by the weapons locker. “You want to be disrespectful? Act like a toddler? Then you can expect a toddler’s punishment. Go face the wall, Richard.”

Dick’s mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can. And I am. Move.”

Alfred’s eyebrow arched just enough to say finally.

Dick stood frozen for a second, humiliation crawling up his throat.

“If I have to repeat myself I'm gonna take you there myself, swatting you every step of the way,” Bruce growled next and that proved enough of an incentive for Dick's legs to cooperate. 

“This is so messed up,” he yelled, stomping past Bruce, past Alfred, all the way to the wall.

“Hands behind your back. No talking,” Bruce’s instructions cracked inside the cave. 

Dick obeyed, cheeks burning, fists clenched behind him so tight his gloves squeaked. He could feel both of them still watching. He could hear them talking quietly. Too quietly to catch anything, but it was clear they were discussing him and that alone was enough to make Dick livid. After another moment he heard two sets of feet walking away. Alfred’s shoes clanked rhythmically as he retreated back upstairs, fading away. Bruce moved to the other side of the cave. 

Then silence.

Dick stared at the junction of the walls, the corner feeling like it had its own damn gravitational field. Time bent weird in it. Dick didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, but it was long enough for his shoulders to start aching, his legs to twitch, and the sting in his backside to fade.

He’d faced down mobsters, mutant sewer freaks, and Mr. Freeze’s ice cannon last month. But this—this was the most humiliating moment of his life.

Worse than Bruce yelling at him in front of the League. Worse than the smacks in front of Clark. Worse than Alfred’s verbal crucifixion.

He was Robin. Gotham’s shadow. A literal living weapon.

And he was in time out.

Like a five-year-old.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut, teeth grinding. His fists flexed behind his back. The fight still bubbled low in his chest—fury and shame and something he couldn't fucking label. Not because he’d been wrong. He had saved that kid. And later he had held his own against the goons for longer than most grown men could’ve.

But still. He shouldn’t’ve snapped at Alfred like that. And Bruce—

His stomach twisted.

Bruce had looked… scared. Not cold. Like something had cracked in him back in that alley, like something had snapped when he saw that bat raised over Dick’s head. 

But Dick couldn’t let himself believe anything truly changed. Nor did he want to. He didn’t need Bruce to be anything more to him than Batman. He just needed to be taken fucking seriously. 

Heavy footfalls echoed toward him, jarring him out of his thoughts.

“Richard,” Bruce’s voice said low. Calm now. And stern. Sterner than Dick had ever heard it. He didn't move, kept staring at the wall, his face flaming hotter than mere seconds ago.

"You can come out," Bruce granted in that same bone-chilling tone.

Dick pivoted slowly noting Bruce had changed into his civies. Dick crossed his arms again and  trudged back toward him, avoiding his eyes. He stopped a few feet away, still prickling.

“Go change in your regular clothes then report back here,” Bruce ordered. 

Dick briefly wondered if his teeth were in risk of cracking from how hard he clenched his jaw. Yet, he stalked away to do as he was told. “And bring the suit back here,” Bruce added curtly. 

Dick huffed angrily at the last order, knowing exactly what it meant. He got out of the tight durable material and changed into a fresh set of training sweats that Alfred always kept at the Cave. Then walked back to Bruce, white-knuckling the suit in his right hand. He stopped a few steps away from the man, staring stubbornly at the wall behind him. Not Bruce’s face, but not the floor either. 

Bruce crouched down slightly to meet his gaze—not looming, not towering. Eye-level. Man to… well, boy.

“Are you ready to talk?” Bruce asked, voice gravel and steel.

“No,” Dick bit back. Shoving the suit in Bruce’s hands aggressively. 

“Tough,” came the clipped reply as he stood back to his full height and tossed the suit to the large table near the bat-computer on their right. “We’re going to anyway.” His expression tightened even more — however that was possible was fucking beyond Dick. “You scared me tonight. Really scared me, Dick.”

Dick’s throat clicked. “I was fine—”

“No,” Bruce snapped—not yelling, but cutting. “You weren’t. You’re lucky you’re not in traction. You’re lucky you’re alive.”

Dick looked away, but Bruce wasn’t done.

“You want to be seen as capable? Then act like it. That means obeying orders. Following the rules. Adhering to the plan. Clearing before acting. Using your team. Using your brain. Not letting your pride write checks your body can’t cash.”

Dick chuckled. Dark and mirthless.

“ Obeying  orders ?” His voice was acid. “ Using my team ?” He barked another laugh, stepping back. “That’s rich coming from you. ”

Bruce’s expression darkened, but Dick steamrolled forward. His chest burned, his face felt hot, his whole body throbbed with something too big to swallow.

“And my pride ?” Dick scoffed. “Right. Because my pride is the problem here.”

Bruce’s jaw twitched. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Dick’s heart pounded. His hands were fists again before he realized it. “You wanna talk about pride? Maybe look in the mirror sometime.”

“ Thin.Ice.”

“No, seriously,” Dick barreled on, too far gone to stop. His throat burned and his words tasted bitter—like something he’d kept down for too long. “You want to lecture me about teamwork? About following orders? About rules ? I wonder where I learned not to give a crap about those, huh, Bruce? ”

“That’s enough —”

“No, it fucking isn’t,” Dick yelled, his voice echoing in the cave, reverberating loudly. Bat screeches followed as a bunch of them flew out startled, but Dick didn't care. The fight in him wanted out. The fire, the rage, the hurt he'd been stuffing down for months . Maybe longer.

“You think I’m reckless?” Dick spat. “That I don’t listen? That I just throw myself in without thinking? Gee, Bruce , I wonder where I got that from? Maybe from the guy who disappears on me for nights at a time without backup. The guy who jumps into hell-holes alone , expecting everyone else to just keep up—”

“Watch it, Richard,” Bruce warned, voice dropping low.

Dick didn’t watch it.

“No! No, you watch it! You don’t get to suddenly pretend you care!” Dick’s voice cracked, his hands flying outward in frustration. “You don’t get to spend a whole damn year treating me like some sidekick-in-training and then—then now , all of a sudden, I screw up and you decide you give a crap about my life ?!”

Bruce’s face hardened, unreadable.

Dick stepped closer, voice rising, shaking. “You don’t care about risk, you don’t care about injuries, you care about your stupid ego! It wasn’t a problem when I fell from that fire-escape three months ago and cracked two ribs! Why? Because you cleared me engaging with that stupid goon. I broke my wrist at school six months ago and you didn’t even bat an eye. But now? Now I scare you?” 

His voice hitched. 

“So it’s okay to get broken or dead as long as it’s cleared or not on the field? What was it that really scared you, Bruce? Was it that I almost died in front of you? Is that what it takes for you to actually see me? You only ever notice me when I screw up or I’m about to fucking die?”

Bruce’s mouth tightened. He didn’t speak, but something behind his eyes ignited .

And Dick hated it .

Hated that look. The one that meant he’d hit a nerve. That Dick was right . That Bruce knew it.

So he pushed harder.

“You think you’re my dad all of a sudden?” Dick’s lip curled. “Guess what, Bruce—you’re not. ” 

“Richard.” Bruce’s tone dropped, a last warning.

Dick took it as a challenge.

“Why is it only when I almost get killed that you want to act like you care?” It was a raw, ugly question, and it scraped its way out of his throat before he could choke it back down. His breath hitched, but he wasn’t stopping. “You didn’t care enough to be anything but a boss for a year. A year of yelling and orders and ‘do better, Robin’—and now you want to play dad? Now, when it’s convenient?” His fists trembled at his sides. “ Well, you’re not! You’re just my boss. My handler. My—my guardian or whatever. And that’s all you’ve ever wanted to be, right ?”

The second the words were out of his mouth, he felt it. The gut-punch.

Not as much to Bruce as t o himself.

He didn’t take them back.

Didn’t say he didn’t mean them.

But something cold and wrong and awful curled in his stomach.

Bruce still wasn’t talking.

Dick huffed out a bitter breath, shaking his head, chest heaving. “So yeah. Sorry, sir , but I don’t exactly buy the worried dad act just because I finally scared you enough to notice me.”

A muscle twitched in Bruce’s jaw. His eyes were still locked on Dick’s, intense and dark . But his voice, when it came, was quiet.

Deadly quiet.

“You done?”

Dick’s throat bobbed.

He felt too hot. Too exposed.

But the rage was already spent, burned up like gasoline on open flame.

So he clenched his teeth and nodded once.

Bruce inhaled, slow and controlled, but when he spoke, his voice was grave. Final.

“Good. Then let me make this perfectly clear.”

Before Dick could react, Bruce caught his arm and pulled him forward, steering him toward the chair near the Batcomputer.

“ Hey—! ” Dick yelped, jerking backward, but Bruce was stronger.

Bruce didn’t say anything, just sat in the chair and then, to Dick’s growing horror, guided him firmly over his knee.

" No way! " Dick bucked, struggling, heat roaring to his face. “ You can’t just—! ”

" Watch me. "

The first swat landed sharp across his backside, and Dick practically jolted out of his skin.

His breath punched out, involuntary, from the sudden shock— because holy crap, Bruce was strong and that had hurt. 

The next smack burned even sharper, right below the first.

Dick was holding his breath, trying to recover from the shock. Because this wasn’t a quick swat to get his attention. Nor a knee-jerk reaction to an intense situation. This was the real deal. A deliberate measured punishment. Like the ones his dad used to give him.

Bruce was spanking him.

Like a freaking kid.

Like he actually cared.

The swats kept falling, Bruce finding a rhythm, making it increasingly harder for Dick to pretend this was nothing. Because it wasn’t nothing. It was something. Something huge, and painful, and embarrassing, and something that held weight. 

“ Bruce! ” Dick barked, twisting, scrambling, face flaming. “ Cut it out! ”

“You think this is a joke?” Bruce growled. Another crack of palm against fabric made Dick wince —not just from the sting, but from the realization that Bruce wasn’t stopping. “You think your life is something you can gamble?”

He paused and Dick dared to hope the man had come to his senses, only for him to holler frantically, when Bruce lowered his sweatpants and continued spanking him on his boxers instead. The pain burned brighter now. Crisper. 

“Stop! You can’t—”

Smack!

“I can.”

Smack!

“I am.”

Smack!

“I will again.”

Smack!

The pressure behind Dick’s eyes became unbearable as he desperately tried to blink back his tears. Another swat landed low, and Dick’s hips jolted against Bruce’s knee. His face burned hotter.

“You almost got yourself killed tonight,” Bruce bit out. “And I will not let you brush it off like it doesn’t matter.”

" I get it! " Dick hissed , squirming desperately now, because God, this hurt. This hurt more than he remembered and he didn’t know for how much longer he’d manage to remain even remotely stoic.

More than that it felt painfully right. And unexpected. And confusing. He’d never expected Bruce to actually do this. To sit down, haul him over his knee, hold him still, and d iscipline him like an actual father.

“If you think all you are to me is a soldier, you’ve got another thing coming,” Bruce said sternly, the swats gaining speed, layering burning pain upon burning pain, swatting already sore skin, overlapping. 

“Bruce, stop! You gotta—”

“I have to show you your place,” Bruce cut him off grimly. “I have to teach you a lesson.”

He paused again and lowered Dick’s boxers next and Dick jolted, embarrassment hot and prickly flaming up in his cheeks, his ears. He squirmed helplessly, but Bruce held him down like it was nothing, before continuing lighting up his ass and thighs, the swats crackling and echoing in the cave like thunderclaps. 

“You think you don’t matter to me?” Bruce continued firmly. “You think I don’t spend every waking minute worrying about you? That I don’t spend every second out there with my soul between my teeth watching you fight crime?”

Dick’s kicked his legs frantically, the pain becoming too much. He couldn’t help the yelps and hisses that tore out of him. 

“You think I took you in on a whim? That I don’t take the responsibility of raising you seriously?” Bruce continued. And Dick would probably answer with a resounding yes to all of the above, but he was too busy hollering over Bruce’s knee. 

“Well, you’re wrong, Richard.” Bruce started relentlessly ramming his upper thighs now, and Dick broke out in sobbing. “You matter to me. If anything happened to you, tonight or any other night, with or without clearance, I would never forgive myself. I am trying my damn best to keep you safe, to let you operate with as much freedom as possible, to not clip your wings but not let you fly right into the sun either.”

The smacks kept falling relentless, now in pairs, scorching the same spot twice before moving to the next and Dick sobbed. Sobbed from the pain and sobbed from Bruce’s words and sobbed from missing his dad and sobbed from the guilt that started bubbling up inside. 

“And you can hate me for it, you can think the worst of me, but I care for you! You’re not just Robin, you’re my kid now. And I’ll be damned before I let my kid think he can run head first into deadly situations, without backup!”

A much sharper swat punctuated the last words, searing them into Dick’s sitspots.

“Without a comm!”

Another one on the other side.

“Without anyone knowing where he is!”

A third one on his upper thigh.

“Recklessly getting involved in a situation he knows he can’t handle alone!”

A fourth one on his other thigh.

“I’ve trained you better than this,” Bruce said grimly. “And I might not know much about parenting, but I sure as hell have taught you to accept responsibility of your shortcomings, Richard!”

Dick couldn’t take it anymore, he laid there, limp and exhausted, legs trembling, ass blazing, head swimming and just cried and cried and cried. Harder than he had in over a year.

Bruce landed a flurry of crisp swats, scorching every inch of skin in one final blazing round, before his hand mercifully stilled. 

Dick couldn’t form coherent thoughts, let alone coherent words, just laid over Bruce’s knees and cried it all out. 

“There we go chum,” Bruce said, his voice a little softer now. “It’s done now.”

Dick didn’t speak, didn’t think he could even if he wanted to. 

Then something happened. Something that so far only ever happened when  Dick was injured or had a nightmare—one bad enough to make him distraught. 

Bruce gathered him in his arms. Folded him in. Strong ams wrapping around him. A warm palm  cradling his head. A strong jaw pressing lightly on his forehead. Soothing circles on his back. 

Comfort.

“You're okay Dicky. I got you.”

Dick wasn't sure why he wasn't trying to punch him. Or to scurry away. Or why he leaned into the embrace. Why he soaked it in. 

"I'm sorry, chum," Bruce said, voice low and rough at the edges. "I'm sorry I haven’t made it clear what you mean to me."

Dick froze. His head jerked up, tears still streaking down his flaming cheeks, vision blurred.

“I know how to be Batman,” Bruce went on, his tone not stern anymore, just worn-out and honest. “I know how to fight. How to lead. How to bark orders in the field. But being more than that... being a father—”

He broke off, jaw tight.

“You were right,” he said after a beat. “I’m not your dad. I won’t pretend I can ever be what he was to you. I didn’t grow up with that kind of love, Dick. I don’t know how to give it the right way. But I’m trying. God, I am trying.”

Dick’s throat squeezed so tight it hurt. Bruce wasn’t good at this. He never was. But that made his words land even harder.

“I screw it up. A lot,” Bruce said, eyes never leaving his. “I don’t say things when I should. I let things slide. I push too hard when you need space and disappear when you need someone. But I will never give up on you. Not now. Not ever.”

Dick didn’t say a word. Just curled in closer, clutching a fistful of Bruce’s sweater, pressing his cheek to his chest where there was warmth and cotton and the steady rhythm of a heart that never stopped for anything—except him.

Bruce’s hand settled against the back of his head, cradling him.

“You have to promise me something.” Bruce’s voice rumbled against Dick’s temple. “You can’t do what you did tonight again.”

Dick stiffened a little, but Bruce’s grip just held him tighter.

“We’re partners. We’re in this together. But this life—it’s dangerous enough as it is. You can’t make it worse by throwing yourself into the fire without a plan. Without backup. Without thinking. You were reckless, Dick. You put yourself on the line, and not because you had to. Because you were angry. Hurt. Pushing back.”

Bruce exhaled. 

“You can’t fight like that. Not in the field. Not in this war. Because unchecked emotion gets people killed. And I can’t—” His voice faltered, just a fraction. “I can’t lose you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of presence, and full of safe, and full of all the things Bruce didn’t know how to say until now.

And Dick just nodded against his chest, wordless, and let himself be held. Let himself feel the pain in his butt and his bruised pride and Bruce’s care. Raw and flawed and messy, but honest and warm and his .

“Things are going to change, chum,” Bruce said quietly, but with that final kind of certainty that left no room for argument. “Starting tomorrow, you and I are going to sit down and go through every Robin protocol—top to bottom. And then we’re going to set some Richard rules too.”

Dick groaned, muffled against Bruce’s chest.

Bruce didn’t smile. Not quite. But something in his voice softened.

“I get it. Change is hard. But it’s necessary. After tonight... We can't keep going like this. Push and pull and fight. Vague lines. It’s not fair to you. It’s not safe.”

He gave Dick’s shoulder a squeeze.

“We’re going to put discipline protocols in place. Ones that make sense. So when something goes wrong, you know what to expect. As Robin and as Dick. As my partner and as my…,my son.”

Dick shifted a little, not quite nodding, but not pulling away either.

Bruce leaned down just a bit, lowering his voice so it landed closer to the heart.

“We’re going to make this work. You and me,” Bruce said again, voice low, steady. “We’re going to do it right this time.”

Dick gave the tiniest nod. Then, burying his face in Bruce’s chest, he whispered, “I’m sorry, too. For scaring you. For going out without my comm and tracker. It was stupid.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose and ran a hand slowly through Dick’s hair, fingers gentle and sure. “Thank you, chum,” he murmured. “You took your consequences. And now we move forward.”

Dick’s face went hot again. “Are you… gonna do that again?”

“Spank you?” Bruce asked, tone even. “Yes. Probably.”

“But, B—” Dick’s voice pitched up in a groan, muffled against Bruce’s sweater. He peeked up, and Bruce’s mouth twitched—not mocking, but sympathetic. Honest.

“I’ve let you run wild too long, kiddo,” Bruce said, smoothing Dick’s hair back again. “That ends now. You’re thirteen. You’re a child. You deserve to be treated like one—held, protected, pulled back when you go too far.”

His hand settled at the back of Dick’s neck, solid and warm.

“And it’s on me to step up. Not just as Batman. As your guardian. As someone who loves you enough to do the hard stuff. Even when you hate me for it.”

Dick didn’t reply. Just let himself sink into the warmth of it. The rare steadiness. The feeling—finally—of not being alone in it.

Bruce stood slowly, keeping a steady hand on Dick’s shoulder.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up and into bed."

Dick didn’t argue. He just let Bruce guide him upstairs, aching and drowsy, his bottom still on fire, but lighter somehow. Safe.

Bruce pressed a kiss on his head and they exchanged a soft goodnight, before Dick entered his room, only to find Alfred there, having just deposited a glass of water and a steaming mug on his nightstand. The butler turned to him with his usual collected expression firmly in place.

"I thought some hot cocoa might be in order," Alfred said.

Dick's throat closed up again,glancing at the mug. Alfred had even put in the little marshmallows he liked. Dick turned to him gingerly. "I'm really sorry Alfie."

Alfred sent him a soft smile before tugging the comforter back and patiently waiting for Dick to climb to the bed. Which wasn't fun. At all. The fire Bruce had spanked into his butt re-ignited as soon as he sat down on the mattress and Dick shifted about with a small whimper.

"You are very much forgiven, Master Richard. Now drink up. You have school in less than five hours and you've more than earned your rest."

Dick nodded and managed a shaky smile, before reaching for the mug, cradling its warmth and inhaling its sweetness. He took a long sip of the velvety richness and sighed contently at the warmth spreading through him—and not just from Alfred's cocoa.

When he closed his eyes to sleep later that night, he drifted off immediately, warm, forgiven, and finally—home.