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The Batman hung away cape and cowl, noted the rip in his uniform that would need mending, and headed for the Batcave's shower, massaging sore shoulders. Next time, he thinks, it might be better to rappel down the side of the Ninth Street parking garage rather than just leaping on a long line.
Still, a good night's work; the Penguin's bullies have backed away from that entire housing complex, and a discreet donation will make certain Cobblepot isn't able to condemn the property. Robin can examine the rest of the area later, and see how many of Penguin's slumlords are overcharging their tenants for repairs that aren't made.
Little things like that still surprise him: that men are that greedy, that they're that open about their avarice. He's annoyed by his own naivete -- it was simple greed that killed his parents, that killed the boy's. But it never fails to startle him. How deep desires can run. How they can overpower honor, duty, basic human decency.
But then, he's never gone without a meal, never slept on the streets, never known true deprivation. He considers going without, learning what that kind of struggle means, but it would be a cruel thing to do to the boy.
The boy is naked in the shower; he can be seen through the mottled glass -- seen just enough to draw the eye.
Fourteen. The Batman briefly considers punching the stone walls of the cave; he wonders if causing himself some physical damage would provide sufficient negative reinforcement.
The child is fourteen.
And unholy in his beauty, some part of him argues. And far more mature than most boys of eighteen.
Which would still be far too young.
He manages to tear his eyes away, but not until after the boy steps out of the shower.
"So." The boy is pretending that he didn't notice. "I made the varsity wrestling team."
He steps into the shower, wondering if the boy expects praise. "Good." The hot water is just what his shoulders need, but he bathes quickly. Alfred will draw a bath upstairs, with epsom salts to draw out the strain. He reaches for his towel, dries himself off, settles the towel around his hips.
"'Good,' that's it?" The boy has not put on a shirt. "Bruce, I'm a freshman and they're putting me up against seniors."
Wrestling. For the love of God. "In your own weight class?" At Dick's puzzled nod, he adds, "Try not to maim them permanently."
"Very funny."
"I wasn't kidding. You're a superior athlete. If it were judo, fighting high school students would be assault. As it is, you've still got a decided advantage."
Rolled eyes. "I weigh a hundred and ten."
"If they can pin you. My guess is that they can't." He slips quickly from his towel into a pair of sweatpants; the boy isn't watching, but it feels strange anyway.
The boy gestures to acknowledge the truth of his superiority, but with such a small shrug that it doesn't seem as though he believes in it. Bruce allows himself a steering hand on the boy's shoulder, and they begin their walk upstairs. It is almost dawn.
"Come at me," the boy says as they pass the mats, a certain recklessness in his eyes. He's wearing a pair of sweatpants and he smells like soap.
"Come at you?"
"You don't think I could fight a real opponent? Come at me."
"If you say you can wrestle, than I believe you," he says, feeling the conversation slide away from him.
"Seriously. I could pin you."
Was it something done, or said? Is he to be punished now even for his thoughts? He can think of no outward sign, no action that could have prompted this exchange. He's faced against a mocking angel, a laughing-eyed demon daring him into a moment of weakness.
The boy licks his lips, the knowledge of what he's doing clear on his face. The suggestion is there, carefully clad in familiar vigilance and training, couched in preparedness and personal safety.
As if this situation weren't fraught with its own danger. The boy needs to learn what he's toying with.
In one deadly, fluid move, the Batman grabs the boy's arms and pushes the slim body back against the wall.
The boy doesn't struggle. His eyes have gone wanton and strange. "Go ahead," he says, his voice a whisper. "Please." There's no mistaking the boy's arousal, or the newness of the sensation showing in those eyes.
"You think you know what you want?" he barely recognizes his own voice; it is darker and crueller than he has ever been able to feign.
"I know what you want," the boy says. This perfect boy, this one who is never intimidated. "I mean it. I'm ready."
There's a sweetness in the offer, behind the bravado, that forces an odd sense of clarity.
"You're beautiful," he says, before he can stop the words, "and you're not wrong." He allows himself one hand on the boy's face, the other hand still pinning the boy's wrists to the wall. The caress holds several long moments; Dick leans into the touch with a gaping mouth and closed eyes.
"You're my responsibility," he says finally, forcing those eyes to open, to look at him. "Mine to protect. From myself, if necessary. From yourself, for that matter."
"Bruce --"
"Shh," he says, cradling the boy's head against his chest. Still holding his hands out of reach. "It's not you," he tells the boy softly. "God, Dick, it is not you." He allows himself, just for a moment, to feel the boy's trembling body against his own.
Fourteen.
"I made a vow," he says simply, knowing that this boy, alone of every human being in the world, knows and understands that vow.
Protect the innocent.
The night is filled with dangers.
"You promised to help me," he says, and he takes his hand from Robin's wrists, watches a quiet determination settle across the boy's features. "You swore it, too."
Slowly, the boy nods.
"Go upstairs," Bruce tells him. "Lock your door."
"I love you," Dick says, greatly daring, and he wants to look away from that open, trusting face, this naive innocence that would surrender everything without question.
He could bring the boy to his knees with a word. With two, he could kneel between his spread legs and take him, hard, against the wrestling mat.
"Go to sleep," he manages, his voice rough. He keeps his hands balled in fists until Robin obeys, gracefully running up toward the sun.