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Bruce was responsible for training many, many people, from members of the JLA to his own children, and over the years, he had learned that everyone came with their own natural proclivities and areas of struggle.
Some were proficient in communication, others in surveillance. Some could slip effortlessly beneath the radar, while others preferred to wield their symbol to their advantage.
The experience he gained had softened his once hard-edged judgment of others’ performance. Rather than condemning someone for struggling in one area, he focused on what they contributed and worked diligently to help them navigate and, eventually, improve the rest.
Still, as his patience grew and the number of unique cases he encountered multiplied, he occasionally found himself thrown off kilter. Every so often, an unforeseen difficulty would arise in his attempts to teach.
Like today, for instance.
“Why on earth do you have a box of worms?” a young Tim asked, exasperated.
“Tim... we’re working on fishing today.”
In fact, Bruce had been very explicit when outlining the plan for the weekend. He had told his newest sidekick that they would be focusing on wilderness survival skills, specifically shelter building, plant identification, fire starting, hunting, and fishing.
The worms should not have come as a surprise.
“Yeah, but how are worms gonna help?”
“What do you mean? They’re the bait.”
“The bait? You expect a worm to draw out a fish?” The boy shook his head with a scoff, dark locks swaying with the motion. “B, is this like a test or something?”
“Tim... have you really never heard of using worms to...” Bruce stopped himself. “Never mind. No, it’s not a test. We’ll use the worms to get the fish’s attention.”
“Yeah, there’s no way that’s gonna work.”
“Tim, I assure you it will.”
“Bruce, where did you even get a box of worms?”
“From my garden.” He narrowed his eyes at the question, unsure where this was going.
“Okay, where in your garden?”
“By the rose bushes.”
“Okay, so not the pond.”
“No, but”
“B, they’re called earthworms. As in, from the dirt of the earth. You know, where fish don’t live?”
“Tim, that’s not-”
“Is this like your cooking skills? Like one of those things that makes no sense for you to be bad at, but you are?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but that’s neither here nor there. I assure you this will work. We just need to hook the worms and cast our lines.”
“Okay... if you’re sure.” Tim’s voice was laced with skepticism as he allowed Bruce to continue.
Reaching into the box, Bruce plucked out a writhing pink worm. Once he had it secured, he took the hook in his other hand and began threading the creature onto its sharp point.
“Oh gosh.” Tim squirmed beside him.
How the thirteen-year-old could withstand the gallery of rogues they faced in Gotham and watch a man get stabbed without flinching, yet become unsettled by an earthworm, Bruce had no idea.
“It’s like its whole body,” Tim explained with a shrug upon seeing Bruce’s raised brow.
The older man let out a chuckle as he held the box toward Tim. “Your turn,” he said, giving it a slight shake.
“Fishing is a lot sadder than I thought,” the boy mumbled as he reached into the box and selected his bait. “Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew,” he muttered as he threaded it onto the hook. The moment he finished, he quickly wiped his hand on his shirt and looked toward Bruce. “Alright, now what?”
“Now we cast.”
Bruce demonstrated the technique, and Tim did his best to replicate it.
Apparently, he enjoyed that particular task far more than the worm portion, because he immediately reeled his line back in and cast it again.
And again.
By the fifth time, Bruce intervened.
“Tim.” He placed his hand over Tim’s before the boy could reel his line in yet again. “You’re going to scare the fish.”
“Oh, right.” Tim gave a curt nod and turned his attention toward the water. “So... how long does this usually take?”
“A while.”
“Right.”
Some time passed before Tim spoke again.
“How long is a while?”
“Tim.”
“Right.”
Then, some time later, “Oh my gosh. I told you the earthworms wouldn’t work. We’ve been sitting here for hours!”
“Tim, it’s been ten minutes.”
Now, Tim was by far the best protégé Bruce had ever worked with when it came to stakeouts. He could outlast most people and rarely complained of boredom during surveillance, which made his impatience with fishing all the more unforeseen.
“Fishing not as interesting as stakeouts?”
“Absolutely not.”
It was only about ten minutes later when Tim’s line began to tug.
The boy jumped at the sudden movement, quickly grabbing his pole before looking to Bruce.
“Reel it in!” He instructed.
Tim did so, but far too quickly.
“Give it a little slack. Let it think it’s getting away.”
“But it’s not getting away! Why are we doing psychological maneuvers on a fish?”
Bruce held in another laugh. “If you pull too hard too quickly, it might break free from the hook.”
“Alright,” Tim replied, skepticism once again evident in his voice.
A moment later, the fish emerged from the water, breaking through the peaceful surface of the lake.
It was a sixteen-inch largemouth bass. A great first catch. “Well done, Tim! Now you just need to grab it,” Bruce called proudly, moving toward the boy to help him unhook his catch.
Rather than calmly grabbing the line above the animal as Bruce had anticipated, Tim panicked and began flailing the poor creature around like a tetherball, frantically yelling, “Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh!”
Bruce was unprepared for the dramatic reaction and promptly received a fish to the face.
“Oh, it is way more alive than I expected!”
“Grab it, Tim!” Bruce called from a safe distance, rubbing his now wet cheek.
Whoever said fishing was peaceful? He wondered.
After getting a grip on his panic, Tim managed to grasp the flailing creature. He was evidently unsettled by the writhing, slimy muscles beneath his hands, however, because he promptly threw both the fish and the pole farther onto shore.
Suffice it to say, Bruce had not foreseen that response either.
His plan for fishing lessons was quickly unraveling, but he did his best to stay on task.
“Okay, Tim, now you need to grab it. This is part of fishing.”
“No one talked about this part of fishing at all! I thought it was supposed to be peaceful!” The boy’s voice broke on the last word, clearly exasperated by the entire process.
You and me both, Bruce thought.
Tim cautiously made his way toward the fish as it continued its frantic movements, leaping and flopping across the ground.
“I just have to grab it?”
“Yeah, just grab it,” Bruce confirmed.
“Ugh, but that doesn’t work! It’s too alive.”
“No, Tim, you just need to grab it, and I can-”
Before Bruce could explain his plan to help Tim unhook the fish and place it in the cooler, the boy punched it.
Like, straight in the face.
Bruce stared.
The fish stopped moving.
“Okay. I guess that works,” he said faintly.
Upon seeing the fish cease its writhing, however, Tim promptly threw up.
Bruce blinked.
“Oh. My. Gosh.” Tim stared at the fish in horror. “I killed it.”
He looked down at his own hand.
“I killed it with my bare hands.”
Bruce quickly retrieved the fish and placed it in the cooler so the boy wouldn’t have to look at it.
That was alright. He wasn’t particularly fond of fishing either.
-🦇-
Later that evening, after consoling the boy and moving on to the considerably less traumatic subject of fire starting, Bruce assured Tim that they didn’t have to cover cleaning the fish that day, but Tim insisted.
“There’s blood on my hands now, Bruce. It can’t be for nothing.”
So, deciding to ignore that concerning perspective, Bruce taught him how to clean his catch.
It went about as well as expected.
The rest of the trip, surprisingly, went without incident. Tim built a shelter with minimal instruction, identified every plant Bruce had taught him, and started a fire faster than most adults Bruce had trained.
He also, thankfully, was already a proficient swimmer. (But that was a story for another time.)
By the time they returned to Gotham, Bruce was satisfied that Tim could survive in the wilderness if the need ever arose.
He was also certain of one thing he had not known before the trip.
He would never take Tim fishing again.