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It takes three months, multiple broken chandeliers, very effective puppy-dog eyes, a ruined sleep schedule, some minor guilt-tripping and major psychological warfare for Bruce to finally green-light Dick’s covert participation in the next Justice League meeting on the Watchtower.
Of course, he doesn't believe for a second that Dick will stay hidden.
The child insists on dressing up like a damn traffic light despite Bruce’s protests, and Superman would have to be either deaf or extremely injured to miss the presence of an entire human child hiding in the shadow of his cape.
Robin takes great glee at the Zeta transmission, and the moment he materialises into being on the Watchtower’s entrance hall, Bruce is ready to corral him into what resembles good behaviour, even if he has to sacrifice what little remains of his self-respect and sleep schedule.
It fails. A hop, step and a showy front handspring later, Dick has managed to successfully escape Bruce’s please-leave-me-some-dignity-in-front-of-my-coworkers talk, and is bounding down the halls of the space station, ready to engage in psychological warfare with the closest unlucky soul.
“Robin,” Bruce calls after him helplessly. “Remember, covert participation.”
The excited giggles echoing down the hall immediately cease, and Robin scurries back to take shelter under the darkness Bruce's billowing cape. For a moment, Bruce hopes that Robin will take his words to heart, remembering the terms of his presence here.
He immediately realises the futility of this when said child begins humming the Mission Impossible theme from under the thick fabric.
He's going to regret this, isn’t he.
Bruce sweeps into the meeting room fifteen minutes early.
Keeping in mind that he has a passenger - Robin’s fingers curl around the back of his belt, following his lead - Bruce sets up the meeting materials with minimal movement.
First to enter is Clark, mid-western manners demanding early arrival. Or maybe it's just him. The Flash is notoriously good at showing up one second early on the dot, regardless of whether he's actually on the Watchtower or somewhere across the world.
“Heya, B,” Clark smiles kindly at him from the room, moving behind his designated seat at Bruce’s right and leaf through the meeting agenda. “Who’s that humming the Mission Impossible theme under your cape?”
As expected, Robin instantly fails at the ‘remain discreet’ portion of the mission. Sure, his heartbeat would have been an instant give-away, but Clark is one of the few people Bruce knows who has tact. Meaning, he wouldn't have asked if there had been an external heartbeat tagging along under Bruce’s cape with permission.
But someone hiding under his cape, giggling at regular intervals and being obvious about it? Clark's just as curious as any human.
Bruce sighs. May as well get the first introduction out of the way, and hope it'll be the last.
“Meet Robin,” he says, lifting the part of his cape enveloping Dick, “My sidekick and partner.”
Clark’s eyes go impossibly softer.
“Hi Mr. Superman!” Dick waves enthusiastically, and noting Robin is about to open his mouth and ruin Batman’s hard-earned reputation, Bruce lets the weighted cape fall back with a dull thwomp, re-enveloping Robin and stifling any attempted conversation. There’s a muffled yelp, and some flailing as Robin pushes at the heavy fabric.
“I am allowing him to attend today’s meeting,” Bruce starts, ignoring the jab to his kidney with a sharp elbow, “on the condition his participation remains strictly covert-”
“-Holy suffocation Batman!” Finally free of his cape, Robin interrupts them with his usual flair. Bruce fights the urge to shove him back under again. “B, I literally can’t breathe under there. Plus, I hate to break it to you, but you should probably wash your cape. Like a lot. It’s a bit stinky.”
Bruce turns to him, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache in his temples. “We had an agreement.” He points at Dick. “Hidden,” Bruce emphasises at him heavily.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dick waves a hand nonchalantly. “Now that the popsicle stand has blown-”
“That’s not how that phrase is used.”
“Now that the popsicle stand has blown,” Dick announces even more loudly, “Hiding away is clearly a bad plan. It’s time for me to acquaint myself with my future workplace.”
“Do not.”
“Yes.”
“Robin, no.”
Bruce is entirely ignored.
Dick is already crowding around Superman chattering at lightning speed about anything and everything, hands waving with frantic excitement. Superman nods along, responding where necessary and explaining various aspects of the satellite.
Where is his Bat-child leash when you need it?
So. The original plan failed.
Of course, the goal for Robin’s participation was never about being hidden. As the premier line of Earth’s defence, if they can’t detect an extra person in the room with them, then they clearly need a training camp, and a three hour seminar on basic situational awareness. No, it was never about hiding Robin from them, for Robin’s sake.
It was about hiding Robin from them, for the sake of Bruce's sanity.
What other way could he get his sleep schedule back, potentially spare the two remaining chandeliers in Wayne Manor, satisfy Robin’s demands for a good while, while reducing as much contact between his protege and his coworkers as possible?
This was not supposed to be a bring-your-kid-to-work-day type thing, and Bruce had extracted many, many promises from Dick that what was happening right this very second, wouldn’t be happening at all.
“-named it, the ‘Watchtower’,” Dick does finger quotation marks to emphasise his point. “See? Totally lame. You should call it something else.”
“I can’t control what it’s called, unfortunately,” Clark laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not up to me.” Helplessly, he looks to Bruce for assistance and Dick entirely misunderstands.
Dick’s head whips to look over where Bruce is standing.
“B!” he calls, running over to grab at his cape, “You funded it, so you should get to name it. It’s only fair.”
“No. You rename everything I name.” Batcave. Batcomputer. Batmobile. Batphone. Batshark-repellent. This is what happens when you give a ten-year-old access to your extremely serious vigilante operation.
Last month, he and Robin were in the middle of taking on a bunch of Black Mask goons when the Batmobile was mentioned, and they laughed at him. Him! Of course, he beat them into the ground later and seized the arms shipment, but the damage was already done. Of course they didn’t take him seriously. He can’t even take himself seriously anymore.
“Great point!” Dick says, beaming. He slaps a hand against the nearest wall, “In the name of tradition, I henceforth dub thee, the Bat-tellite.”
Of course. The bat–satellite. The bat-tellite.
What else did he even expect?
“I will consider it,” he’s not considering it, “if you go back under my cape for the remainder of our visit here.”
Crossing his arms, Dick squints at him suspiciously, as if deciding the weight of Bruce’s words.
“Fine,” he says after a moment of consideration, lifting a corner of the cape as he prepares to duck back under it, “but I’m holding you to it!”
“Hn,” Bruce says.
It won’t happen. Robin’s impulse control is thirty percent Bruce, sixty percent how cool he’ll look doing something, and the remainder is how much chaos he’ll cause. And the pettiness. Can’t forget the pettiness.
But for now, Robin is hidden away again, and Bruce will take his victories wherever he can, no matter how small they are.
With Robin safely out of sight under his cape, the other leaders of the JL file into the room one by one as the clock ticks closer to the designated start time. By the time they’re all seated and comfortable (with the exception of the Flash, who will arrive a whole entire second before the designated start time, as usual).
Bruce clears his throat as the room fills, and silence falls as he moves to officially start the meeting.
Robin is about as well behaved as expected, which includes giving a teeny tiny round of applause whenever Batman speaks, stealing from the snack compartment in the Bat-Utility belt, getting a sugar high from said snacks, and generally being a (subtle) menace.
But not subtle enough.
The meeting is going smoothly, all things considered. The presentation is well received, stupid questions are kept to what could be considered a record-breaking minimum, and the takeout the Flash brings is both palatable and neat.
He reaches the end of the fire safety updates with minimal fuss and drama, and as per habit, finishes with a curt, “Any questions, before we move on from-” he motions to the powerpoint, currently displaying the title FIRE SAFETY ADDENDUM 3.2.6 in all caps. Underneath it, in smaller font, STOP SETTING MY DAMN SPACE STATION ON FIRE is written in italics, underlined twice, “-all this.”
Barry slowly raises his hand.
As the perpetrator of the latest revision of the fire safety guidelines, Bruce Batglares at him.
Barry lowers his hand.
Next up, surprisingly, is Green Lantern.
“What's with the small multicoloured child hiding under your cape?”
This is just as relieving as it was surprising - Bruce’s opinion of the man is predominantly annoyance, interspersed by periods of grudging respect. It’s good to know he doesn’t have to hold another compulsory seminar about situational awareness. The first one was bad enough.
“Oh thank goodness,” Barry announces, slouching forward over the table in relief, “I wasn’t sure if it was just me or more hallucinations from dodgy takeout.”
Bruce chooses to selectively ignore the ‘more hallucinations’ part - that is none of his business and frankly he doesn’t want to know anything more about the Flash’s diet than he already does. Unless he can use it in a contingency plan.
But, seeing an opportunity to cause chaos, Dick finally bursts out from under Bruce’s cape with all the enthusiasm of a mentally-challenged golden retriever.
”Hello!” He loudly announces, “It is I, Batman’s partner in not-crime, the Robin to B’s Batman, the dynamic in the duo because B’s boring as hell. Now,” Dick starts, acting as if his newfound audience hasn’t just been jumpscared with his very presence, “Nice to meet you all and all that jazz, but more importantly, how do I join the Justice League. Where do I hand in my resume, because I am here, ready, and much more importantly, not at all emo like this dude.” He jabs an absent finger in Bruce’s direction.
The Justice League just kind of stare at Robin in befuddlement. Bruce feels himself age twenty years. Diana sends Bruce a searching look - the kind that most men quake under - and yet he cannot find the words to explain the psychological trauma this brat has caused him this past month, that actually bringing him to the Watchtower was a last-ditch effort to preserve the continued existence of Wayne Manor and Bruce’s sanity. He has nothing to say. Nothing at all.
“I’m also much cooler,” Robin continues, “and an excellent addition to the team in many ways that you haven’t even considered yet.”
In what ways, Bruce wants to ask, by causing new heights in property damage? By doubling the length of the current safety manual? By giving us all stress-induced grey hair?
Yeah. No.
Fortunately, no one else is convinced either.
“How old are you?” Oliver asks, pinning him with a skeptical look. “We don’t allow minors to join, especially with the type of work we do. It’s very dangerous, kid.”
Robin’s barely four and a half feet tall. There is, without question, no way that he has hit puberty, making Green Arrow’s question both open enough to gain a usable answer and then make up an age limit that applies specifically to Robin.
But of course, that’s Dick under the mask, so the plan fails even before it has time to sprout.
“I’m twenty-two,” Dick blatantly lies. “Plenty old enough. Now where’s that sign-up form?”
Twenty-two, he says. If anyone falls for that, there is no amount of seminars that can fix them. Bruce has always been a believer in redemption and self-improvement, but this? That would be beyond help.
To his relief, no one does.
“Unfortunately,” Diana says, with gravitas, “There is another criteria you do not meet.”
“What is it?”
“The height requirement.”
This, for one, stops Dick in his tracks. “You have one of those?”
“We have one of those?” Hal echoes confusedly. Pleasantly smiling all the while, Diana semi-subtly punches him in the gut, thoroughly winding him. He makes a quiet wheezing sound and curls into himself, letting out a noise that sounds suspiciously like, “Message received owwww.” He’s going to have a bruise later.
Fortunately, it gets the point across.
“Yes,” Diana says, ignoring Hal gasping next to her. “You must be at least-” she holds her hand up to her sternum, palm down, “-this tall.”
The height Bruce’s new favourite coworker has chosen is about five and a half feet, both reasonable and very, very out of Dick’s current reach, no matter how many extra inches he gives himself with thick soles and outrageous hairstyles.
“That’s no fair,” Dick complains, “You just made it up! That’s not protocol.”
Diana smiles, not unkindly, but there is a glint in her eye that is unmistakable. “All in favour of temporarily adding a height requirement to the Justice League entry requirements?”
All hands go up.
“Unanimous approval. See,” she says kindly to Dick, “We do have a height requirement to join. Maybe when you’ve grown up a little, hmm?”
Dick stares at her with unabashed betrayal. His face is the epitome of how could you do this to me.
Diana is now Bruce’s favourite person, possibly in the universe.
With the most current and urgent hurdle (Robin trying to join the JL) out of the way, it’s time for damage control while nothing is on fire. Regardless, the damage Bruce’s wayward protege has done is irreparable, especially to his dignity and his image.
So, it’s time to nip this interaction in the bud, for the benefit of all parties involved.
Bruce mentally debates the advantages and disadvantages of repositioning Robin back under his cape, or leaving immediately with Robin in tow, putting the Bat-child leash to good use. The first and main issue with this plan is the lack of a Bat-child leash on his person at the moment (a clear oversight in his contingency protocols, one which must be rectified with haste) so, the first option it shall be.
With all the speed and tenacity he possesses, he grabs Robin’s shoulder and yanks him into his side, cape already raised and ready with his other hand.
Unsurprisingly, Dick fights it.
Bruce has long since known he’s a slippery little bastard, unafraid to use his circus background to his advantage, and that was even before the Bat-training made him downright ungovernable. Now, he puts all his skills in full use, wriggling out of Bruce’s grasp like a child-shaped eel.
“Party pooper!” Dick yelps as Bruce re-wrangles Robin back under his cape once again. “B! Lemme out!”
Bruce doesn’t deign that an answer, wrapping his cape further around Dick, and then caging him there with his arms. The muffled complaints turn into caterwauling, because in typical Dick-fashion, if he’s suffering everyone else is going to hear all about it.
There. That should be sufficient.
Armful of wrangled Robin, Bruce looks up to see the rest of his coworkers staring at him like they’ve never seen him properly before. Shooting them his nothing-to-see-here-or-else Batglare, he attempts to continue as if the entire confrontation never happened. “Like I said. Any questions. Related to the presentation.”
The Flash raises a hand, for the second time.
Bruce points at him, and in the moment he partially lets go, he receives a hard elbow to the gut, right in the crease of his armour. Curse Dick’s pointy elbows, they really pack a punch when he wants to. Breathing through it, he forces himself to show no reaction and resecure his wriggly package again.
“Right,” Barry says. “Not entirely related to the presentation, but still very, very relevant.”
Bruce glares at him harder, and the Flash takes this as approval to continue.
“Is he,” Flash points at the writhing mound of fabric encasing Robin, “okay?”
”Yes,” Bruce says. “He is perfectly fine. This is normal.”
Underneath the cape, Dick yowls like a stray cat, screeching at a pitch that would be painful to human ears if he wasn’t swamped under a heavily-reinforced cape designed to be functionally bulletproof. Every half-second, a lump of fabric pitches outwards, as if someone underneath was kicking and flailing. Bruce casually rearranges his grip to hold it better.
Flash’s mouth makes an ‘O’ shape, and he nods slowly.
“Right.” Bruce says shortly. “Excellent. If that is all, I have matters to attend to in Gotham. Incredibly important matters, meaning we will have to cut this meeting short. Farewell.”
With that, he bodily picks up his armful of child, still wrapped in the Batcape and making his displeasure about it very clear to anyone with eyes and ears, he goes to shuffle out of the room, hoping that’s the end of it all.
Unfortunately, there are several problems with this plan.
The first, is that Dick, as mentioned before, is ungovernable. Squirmy, small and slippery, and very, very determined.
The second is Batman himself. As the single unpowered member of the Justice League, the protector of a city as dangerous as Gotham, he has to be prepared for every scenario. And access to the contingencies for these scenarios, are mostly stored in his utility belt, which he currently lacks access too.
The third, is his utility belt.
His stocked utility belt, which Robin currently has access too with only a little bit of wriggling.
Which is why he is not expecting the Bat-tazer against his ribs until he’s on the floor and blinking at the ceiling as his muscles rebel against him. One of his own contingencies, used against him. By Robin.
The betrayal.
He is so grounded.
“-be fiiiiiine,” Robin is saying. “We work strictly non-lethally!” Bruce almost misses the muttered unfortunately with the ringing in his ears, but Dick is not very subtle at all, ever, as the last hour and a half has made exceedingly clear.
Nevermind grounding Robin, Dick is grounded. Civilian-style.
Pushing himself up to his knees, pressing gloved palms against the smooth, cold floor of the Watchtower, Bruce grits his teeth against the residual tremors of the Bat-tazer. His hearing fades back in alongside his focus, and Robin stands in front of him, hands on hips, confidently fending off to Bruce’s worried coworkers in amongst shameless self-promotion.
Back on his feet and visibly fine, most of the eyes on him relax a little, yet Bruce can still feel Clark’s linger as he verifies that he really is as okay as Dick claims he is.
“-Just us, protecting the city, y’know! The dynamic duo, Batman and Robin, the ultimate team!”
“Why you though? An actual child?” Green Arrow runs a hand down his face, looking almost as tired as Bruce feels right now.
“Yeah,” Flash pipes up, “Where did you even come from?”
Oh dear.
Bruce knows exactly what is about to happen.
“So!” Dick says with great fanfare, throwing himself across Bruce’s designated chair with nary a care in the world.
The Justice League look on with a mix of befuddled awe, like they’ve never seen a child dressed up like a traffic light before. Which they haven't. Bruce mentally steels himself as Dick clears his throat. “When two people love one another very, very much-”
“You’re adopted.” Bruce says.
Silence.
Dick whips around to look fully at him, and something in Bruce’s heart stutters at the utterly crushed expression Robin seems to be barely holding back.
It’s only with years of experience that he can spot the mischief in his eyes under the budding fake tears.
Barry muffles a gasp behind his hand, Diana leans in on her elbows and clasps her hands under her chin like she only does when shit is about to go down and she wants to see it happen up close and Clark looks on with a mix of baffled amusement and schadenfreude.
Oh no. Somehow, this is worse than Dick giving his adult colleagues a pseudo-birds-and-the-bees talk.
“What?” Robin whispers quietly, looking up at Bruce soulfully as a single tear streaks down his face. “I… I’m-” He cuts himself off with a choked sob.
The heads of the Justice League collectively swivel to Bruce, accusingly.
Nope. Bruce is not dealing with this. Not right now, not ever. Bringing Robin to the Watchtower was a mistake, and now he knows exactly why Alfred looked so apprehensive when Bruce informed him he had caved in to Dick's demands.
He made the grievous error of thinking that Dick could control himself, but evidently he was wrong. This is the child who ran around Gotham with neither pants nor proper equipment until Bruce made him stop, the one who thinks death-defying stunts are fun activities, the one who makes being put to bed or eating vegetables a near sisyphean feat. Not even the reward of (sort of) renaming the Watchtower was enticing enough to keep him from being a little shit.
“Hn,” Bruce grunts.
There. Perfect answer. Being an emotional brick wall has once again saved his life and his dignity. He hits the powerpoint clicker built into his glove, and the powerpoint slide on the wall goes from the boring title of FIRE SAFETY ADDENDUM 3.2.6 to the even more boring title of UPDATED SPACE FLIGHT SAFETY PROTOCOL 6.5.2.
“Anyway,” Bruce says, aggressively jerking his laser pointer onto the relevant text. “Safety protocol updates. Critical information. First on the agenda is-”
Robin‘s breath catches in his throat, surfacing as a quiet sob. Even though Bruce knows it is entirely fake, something about hearing Dick cry makes him hesitate, worry rising in his gut.
He looks back at Dick, just to reassure himself. And yes, under the layer of shiny tears, the child is visibly and clearly contemplating setting Bruce on fire, but is doing an excellent job of disguising it as shocked betrayal.
Dick hiccups another, louder sob.
The League looks at Bruce accusingly.
Bruce is almost in admiration of the sheer level of pathetic-soaked-kitten Dick is currently radiating. If only it wasn’t at his expense, he might almost be impressed. He’s not. That brat just tazered him. They will be having words later. Lots of them.
“No… B, why? How could you do this to me?” With this, Dick starts to sob heavily.
Holy unadoption Batman, Bruce thinks helplessly. Dick just sobs harder. No one knows what to do, and the longer he cries, the more disapproving glances Bruce is getting from around the room.
Taking a deep breath, he makes a mental note for future-Bruce to never do this ever again.
“WHAT ABOUT MOM?” Dick howls through his tears and heaving fake-sobs, and Bruce finally, finally makes the executive strategic decision to screw the meeting, screw the League and leave as fast as possible with a crying Robin tucked under his arm.
The minute the pass though the Zeta into the Batcave, Dick instantly stops sobbing, mops up his tears with all the apathy of a skilled actor, blows Bruce a raspberry and disappears into the depths of the Manor, most likely to break all the remaining chandeliers or set something on fire.
Bruce watches him go.
The clack of footsteps behind him announces Alfred’s presence. They stand next to each other, listening to the chittering of the bat colony, far above them.
“I wasn’t that bad, surely.” Bruce says into the quiet of the cave.
The silence that follows is telling. Bruce can almost hear Alfred’s eyebrow raise.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred starts slowly, “I was of the opinion that you were going to come back from your travels as a worldly, obnoxious vegan, just like your father did at that age. I did not expect… this.”
His voice echoes through the cavern that Bruce has commandeered as the headquarters for his crime fighting operations.
Across from them is the supercomputer central data console, fondly nicknamed the ‘Batcomputer’, terminals and screens and wires taking up an entire wall. A feat of engineering, without even mentioning the winding passageways spreading all across Gotham for accessibility combined with stealth, the trophy stage, the three separate nuclear winter shelters, everything. The state of the art forensic laboratories, nine highly specialised laboratories, the hangar filled with every type of vehicle imaginable, the massive gymnasium and training facilities, all safely encased under the sprawling grounds of Wayne Manor.
Oops. Bruce feels the corner of his lips rise. “Sorry, Alfred.”
“Don’t be, Master Bruce. I am of the partial opinion that this-” He motions to the manor over their heads, “-is merely karma for the stress you have put me through.”
There’s an echoing crash, far above them. There goes another chandelier, Bruce thinks absently.
“Although,” Alfred continues, eyes creasing as he peers up at Bruce, smiling, “I have found that it was all worth it in the end. Every last grey hair.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Bruce says, and means it wholeheartedly.