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He decides to take a quick break from the Batcave; it will be better if he's upstairs when the boy comes home. The Penguin's most recent trap was challenging, and a degree of normalcy will provide comfort. If it's necessary.
There's a resilience about the boy that 's astounding; it's possible the decision to take him in played a part. The boy watched his parents plummet to their deaths -- but he has managed to recover, in these past years, in a way that Bruce Wayne simply could not have done.
And yet, that is the boy's strength -- not raw muscle, as the Batman himself has, but rather resilience -- lissomeness, agility, flexibility, and an extraordinary gift for acrobatics. It shows in his mind as well as in his body, and it's as reliable as brute mental or physical force. Robin fills in the gaps that the Batman cannot: humor, insight, quick intuition, and recklessness -- balanced with an obedience the Batman knows is absolute.
Robin is well-named for his totem bird; the name suits him much better than any variation on his given name. A harbinger of spring, winged -- even noisy. A sign of thaw. It's difficult to remember to keep what is above and what is below separate, sometimes. Bruce Wayne only refers to the boy as Dick, the variation the boy inexplicably prefers for himself.
"They'll either say it to my face," Dick once explained to Bruce, "or they'll say it behind my back." Besides, his parents, itinerant and blithe, called him so, and Dick offers such remembrances as he can. Robin, too, is a name given to the boy by his mother. He has inherited so little from them -- his grace and agility, his intelligence, his names -- but nothing tangible beyond the physical fact of himself.
Which is more than enough.
The boy is home, now, sprinting the half-mile from the manor gate up to the foyer. Bruce made the newsworthy decision to send Dick to the local public school system, after a series of generous donations that improved its facilities and teaching staff. The Batman thinks it's better if Robin learns to blend in among other children, learns early on to keep his identities safely separate.
Dick Grayson is a decent student, where Robin's brilliance is almost untamable; he's chosen wrestling and swimming, rather than excelling in gymnastics or cross-country running. Such masks build important skills -- one learns by trickery to know the tricksters, to learn the telltale signs that come with false pretenses. And one is forced to use skills that are secondary, to develop lesser abilities that may one day save a life. If a bird trained in flight becomes a grappler, a swimmer -- there are new predators he then can defeat.
It is a simple thing, to wear many names and faces. Bruce Wayne has done it since he himself was a child -- delivering to people what they expect, while keeping everything genuine buried. He has only extended a metaphor, he thinks, considering the cave that is his real home. The facade above is merely old money, old stone, a dead family's tastes and possessions. If Alfred Pennyworth has become a friend and ally in spite of it all, it is because Alfred, too, can wear many masks and roles.
Alfred is playing the mother hen now -- settling the boy's things, offering him a quick snack. The boy rarely resists food. He's growing almost exponentially, his center of balance occasionally too unsettled for even Robin to control. His face is growing, too, moving away from childhood. Sometimes he thinks before he speaks, these days; there is an awareness that lurks near his mouth. Something unspoken, but something that gives him pleasure. It's undoubtedly better not to ask.
There is something oddly beautiful about him -- a habit of motion, perhaps. The way his smile always reaches his eyes. The boy is entirely genuine; he acts on his unchecked emotions, all wayward care and passion. It's a dangerous tactic, but one to be admired, nevertheless. A bravery of which the Batman could not find himself capable. A foolishness to which not even Bruce Wayne could aspire.
"Report card," the boy says, offering it to him. An admixture of low As and high Bs; excellent but unremarkable. Dick sits in the back of the classroom, stays quiet, never picks fights. He refers to it as 'flying under the radar,' and he does it well.
"There's a C in math," Bruce says. "You're not a C student."
"There was this one test," Dick shrugs. "Vectors. I don't get them. But I didn't want to hold up the whole class, so..." He is embarrassed, eager to reassure. "It's fine."
"You should ask for help when you need it."
"I get all As on the other tests. The teacher wants me to join the math club. Which I'm not going to do, so maybe it's better if I flunk a test once in a while."
"It might be. But you shouldn't miss the concepts." I'm your teacher, he wants to tell the boy. Ask me. "Vectors?"
Dick nods.
"Come here," he says, caught by a sudden inspiration, and leans on the heavy leather couch in the sitting room, pushing it slowly toward the china cabinet.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm pushing this couch into the china," he says, carefully blasé.
"You've finally gone over the edge," the boy mutters, and throws himself, predictably, on the other end, pushing back with all of his weight. It slows a little, but its progress continues.
"Where's the couch going to go?" he asks the boy.
"Well, into the china," comes the reply. "We both know you're stronger than I am."
"You'd better think quickly, then."
"I suppose hollering for Alfred is not the point of this exercise," the boy quips, and even while he's talking, he's thinking, because he throws all of his weight on the back of the couch, perpendicular to the current force. Together they miss the china cabinet; the couch bumps harmlessly into its matching loveseat.
"What was it you didn't get about vectors?" It's a pleasure to tease him, to watch understanding come into his eyes. His raw intuition is powerful, but he has to learn the theory -- to prepare ahead, rather than simply react.
"Wait, so, if I had called for Alfred, and both of us had directly opposed you, that would have maybe been equal vectors, and then it wouldn't have gone anywhere, right?"
"And if you'd pushed with me it would have gone faster."
"That's totally easy. Why do they make it sound so hard?" He shakes his head in wonder. "I'm telling you, the forces of evil are getting trickier. They want me to think I'm stupid."
"The forces of evil don't care if you flunk math. I do."
"Not flunking. I told you."
"I know. It's good work." The report card is duly read and signed. Four As, three Bs, the problematic C-plus. Dick is bright, but shy. Dick is a natural leader, but doesn't trust himself. Dick needs to play better with others. Dick should try out for the diving team.
"Are you going to?" he asks the boy. "Diving?"
Robin rolls his eyes. "Dead giveaway," he says, demonstrating a perfect aerial somersault from a standstill. That earns him an affectionate cuff on the head and a hand leading him downstairs, to where he'll never profit from holding back, to where less than his absolute best could kill him.