Murmur in the Quiet Hours
Batman Bingo 2020: Mission Gone Wrong
Clark felt like a bucket of ice had been dumped over his head. He woke up just as cold and as suddenly as if it had. His heart was racing. Looking around the room, he scanned past the shadows and darkness. There were no intruders, no lurking figures watching him.
Clark slumped back onto his pillow again and closed his eyes. Had he been dreaming? An unexplainable urgency filled him. He rolled over and looked at the alarm clock on his nightstand.
Four.
It was only four in the morning. He closed his eyes but found he no longer felt the pull of sleep.
Clark groaned as he got up. His feet barely brushed the floor, as he allowed himself to hover slightly. The hard wood was cold. Delaware was colder than Clark had expected. He loved the city, but being this far north and near the ocean meant that it was always cold and damp. Clark wondered if it had seeped into his bones yet. Many thought that Superman didn’t feel the cold, but it was the farthest from the truth. He felt it all the time, but the sun’s warmth was usually enough to block it out. Or at least it had been in Kansas. Clark hated to admit just how many times he had blown clouds past or back out to sea, just to help make the winter months in Metropolis more bearable.
Ma had scolded him for doing it too often, so he now tended to spend more and more time flying above the clouds. Anything to get the sun's warmth.
Clark made it all the way to his coffee pot, before the feeling of cold hit him again. But this time the cold was accompanied by a whisper.
Superman stilled, his hand hovering next to the handle of his coffee pot.
Superman .
Clark hated his hearing. He hated that it was impossible to completely escape the sound of people calling for him. Unless he banished himself to the far reaches of space he would always hear something . He sighed and grabbed the pot.
Superman .
Clark closed his eyes and trusted his smell and memory of his kitchen to guide him in filling the machine with coffee grounds and water. The first year Clark had been active he had nearly worked himself to death. He answered every call. He had been fired from his job at the Metropolis Press. He hardly slept or ate. It wasn’t until his dad pulled him aside that Clark had slowed down.
The forming of the League had helped. It was relieving to see it wasn’t just him.
But no matter what missions or scheduling that the League, the Planet or he gave himself, he refused to break his promise to his father. He would rest. He was supposed to be resting. He might not be human but he was just a man.
Superman .
Clark, broke the coffee cup in his hand. The porcelain ricocheted off the counter and cupboards. Clark bit back a strangled scream. He was tired. He was--
Superman ?
Clark froze. He knew that voice. But-- he had never heard it sounding so sad. Was that-- no.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Character: Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne
Summary: One person's hobby can quickly be the entire family's business, especially with a family like this
(aka, Cass's adventures with ballet featuring her relationship with her siblings and Steph)
***
It’s rare that Cass would willingly sit in front of a laptop for an extended period of time for something that is not a case. It’s even rarer that her schedule would coincide with Tim’s enough to allow them to be sitting in front of their laptops together. (Well, separately, but in the same room at the same time. So, close enough to being together.)
It’s only because Tim has been expecting it for a few minutes now that the sound of a laptop being slammed closed doesn’t startle him. Tim looks up to find Cass putting her head into her hands while saying, “Ugh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This… this damned website!” Cass all but shouts. “How am I supposed to know which shoes fit me best if I haven’t worn them ever? I’m reading your website to figure that out!”
“Umm… Cass?” Tim is now confused. Very confused. “Can you backtrack a little? What shoes?”
“Ballet shoes!”
“I thought you have them already? What shoes have you been wearing to class then?” Cass has been taking dance classes for months now. She must have ballet shoes, there’s little to no chance of her doing all those classes barefooted. Tim knows that ballet requires special shoes, which is about 50% of his current knowledge about ballet.
“Not those shoes. These are the… the… the pointe shoes!”
Tim is now even more confused. “So? There you go. The shoes you’re looking for are those pointe shoes.”
“No! There’re different kinds of them!”
“Huh?”
“Different brands and models and years and… and the endless modifications!”
“Okay.” Tim raises his hands placatingly. This sounds like an information problem, which he can help with. “Can I maybe, you know, look at the website? Maybe I can help?”
Cass slides her laptop to Tim. Tim closes his own laptop, then opens Cass’. Fifteen tabs greet him from the screens of Cass’s laptop. Tim sees that this is not the only window opened, and is then greeted with another three windows, each having tabs ranging from ten to thirty. Huh. It’s usually Tim who has that problem, opening too many tabs and windows and finding himself trapped in an information hellhole before he looks up to find that he has spent the entire day reading about the probabilities of oak tree getting struck by lightning.
Thankfully, that same thing has prepared Tim for this day. He quickly skims about every other tab. About a quarter of them is measuring tips, half of them are blogs with fitting and choosing tips, some are lists of pros and cons, and the rest are catalogs.
“Are all of these for choosing pointe shoes, Cass?”
“Yes,” Cass grits out.
“I… I never knew there are so many brands of pointe shoes.”
“Exactly! How am I supposed to choose if there’s so many of them!”
Tim, armed with his years of experience of sorting through bullshit on the internet, finds the most promising blog article titled ‘How To Choose Your Pointe Shoes: Guide to Getting the Best Shoes’ and starts to read.
“It says to go for a professional fitting? Maybe we should do that.” Cass makes a sound of protest. “I can start researching, but it’ll take ages and I’m not sure I’ll get it right. I’m pretty sure that poor pointe shoes fitting causes injuries, Cass. When do you need it anyway?”
Cass mumbles something. Tim, whose attention is now partially reading the section titled ‘Shank Strength’ and wondering what on earth a shank even is, doesn’t catch it at first. Then, the connecting nerves between his ears and his brain rebooted, and Tim screeches out, “Tomorrow? Yeah, no. We’re going to a professional fitting right now.”
“Ugh.”
“Cass,” Tim says, drawing out the syllable.
“Ugh.”
“Come on.”
“Ugh.”
“You’re seriously gonna make me read all of this before tomorrow? Have some mercy, Cass,” Tim teases. But seriously, he doesn’t want to have to read all of it in the short time-frame he has. He can do it, but then he’s gonna skip dinner and forgoes sleep and rest entirely and he just got Alfred to stop hounding him to go to sleep after his latest incident . He doesn’t want to have to do it again.
“You’re gonna do it anyway.” He is, but still. It’s the thought that counts. “Fine. It can’t be worse than comparing the box length of Grishko and Bloch.”
“Great! Let’s go!”
“Do you know where?”
Tim freezes. “Shit.” Now he still has to research the fitter in Gotham, and vet the places, and do all sorts of things he was hoping to not have to do by going to a fitter. Damn it.
Cass, being the absolute horrible sister that she is, just laughed at him.
“It’s your shoes, Cass! You do it!”
“No. You read about it. It’s your project now,” Cass smiles triumphantly.
“You are the worst.”
“I am the best.”
***
Jason only comes to the Manor to return Alfred’s pans, swear to god. There’s about half a dozen of Alfred’s pans (because even though it’s Bruce’s money that bought them, they are Alfred’s pans) in his latest apartment, and it’s getting ridiculous. Maybe take a book or two from the library while he’s there, because even with all of Bruce’s fault, he still keeps the library well-stocked with Jason’s favourite books.
So how come that leads to him being dragged by Cass to the Cave?
“Cass. Cass, please,” he tries.
Cass’ response is only to drag him even faster. How a girl half his size has the strength to drag him down the Cave’s stairs, Jason doesn’t know.
“Cass.”
“You said you don’t have anything else to do today. So you can do this.”
“Well, Cass, I-”
“It’ll be fun. You only have to sit. You can even read the entire time.”
“What if-”
“Alfred agrees.”
Jason sighs. “I doubt this is what he meant when he told you to go somewhere else to practice, Cass.”
“I asked him. He agrees.”
Jason sighs again. The problem is, she did ask Alfred, and Alfred did agree. Though why Cass chose to ask Alfred for permission to use Jason as a living, human barre for her ballet practice after Alfred banished her from using the kitchen countertop is a mystery. Maybe she thinks that Jason is not going to protest if Alfred said yes?
“Why me? You can have literally anyone to be your personal barre, Cass.”
“You are the right height.”
There’s nothing to say to that, is there? What’s Jason going to do, argue that he is not the right height? He doesn’t even know how high a ballet barre should be. Besides, Cass is right. Alfred already said yes, and he even went so far as expressing his delight in seeing Jason interacting with his siblings outside of their ‘nighttime activities’. So there’s that. There’s no arguing with Alfred when he had given out his verdict like that.
They arrive at the Cave, and then Cass drags Jason towards the empty space somewhere in between the sparring mats and the computer. Then, she lets Jason’s arm go, which should be enough of an opening for Jason to escape, but Jason knows what Cass can do. She’ll just catch him and drag him back. Jason accepts his fate and stays put even when Cass leaves his side to in search of a chair. Cass finds one, then drags it over, and then says, “Sit.”
Jason, who knows that this girl can easily force him to sit, sits. Cass smiles and nods her approval. She scrolls down on her phone for a while, and then music fils the Cave via the speaker system Bruce installed. Jason allows himself a small shake of the head. It’s just like Bruce to install a speaker system and then let it go to waste by preferring to brood in silence.
Cass puts her hand on Jason’s shoulder, and starts dancing. The hand is feather-light throughout her first combination, and Jason knows enough about ballet to know that this meant Cass doesn’t particularly need a barre to do the movements.
But. Well. It’s not half bad, watching his sister dance in between reading his book. That, coupled with the knowledge that Alfred is somewhere upstairs, most definitely preparing Jason’s favorite foods, made Jason relax.
“Stop moving!” Oh. Jason relaxing meant that his shoulder is now not in the same place it was before.
Jason smiles and says, “Sorry, sorry,” surprising himself that he actually meant the apology.
***
“Cass? Are you there?” Cass had promised to teach Steph a new throw today, but she’s not in the Cave, so Steph is now up in Wayne Manor, hoping she’ll find Cass in her room. “Cass? You promised to show me that throw, remember?”
Steph hears movement from inside Cass’ room, so she opens the door, considering Cass to be well and truly notified of her presence by her hollering in the hallway, only to be greeted with the sight of Cass with surgical tape and cotton balls in her hands. Steph goes to full-alert mode immediately, because anything or anyone that can get Cass to be hurt is a huge threat.
(Steph still hasn’t forgotten about Lady Shiva.)
“Cass, are you alright?” Steph says.
“I’m fine.”
“Where are you hurt? Do I need to call Alfred? Or dr. Thompkins?”
“I’m fine, Steph,” Cass’ voice is calm, but Steph has seen her take a bullet and still talks in the same calm voice as she is using now, so that is not an accurate meter to gauge Cass’ wellbeing.
“You’re holding bandages, Cass. You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine. Watch out for the bucket.”
“Bucket? What bucket?”
“That bucket,” Cass points to her right.
“Why do you need a bucket?” Steph pauses, then the implication of a bucket in Cass’ bedroom hits her. “Are you sick as well?”
“No, it’s for my toes.”
Toes? What? “Okay, back up. Your toes?”
“Ballet.” Oh. Oh . Now that Steph is no longer worried that Cass is going to bleed out, she realizes that Cass is not putting on the tapes, but pulling it off. Oh, again. “Can you push the bucket here?”
Steph pushes the bucket, which Steph now notices is filled with ice, towards Cass with her foot. Cass puts her feet inside, groaning all the way.
“Ballet?” Steph asks. It seems weird that something so innocent can make Cassandra Cain react this extensively. But again, Steph has long learned not to underestimate anything.
“Ballet,” Cass answers.
“Is it the pointe shoes thing? I’ve read about it somewhere. That’s why I don’t want to go into ballet,” Steph says, lifting up a towel that’s next to Cass and replacing its position.
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?” Steph puts her head on Cass’ shoulders, looking up a while to check whether or not this is okay.
“Yes,” Cass says, both as an answer for Steph’s question and Steph’s unspoken question.
“Can you still teach me that throw?”
“Yes. Give me a few minutes.”
“Okay.” They sit in silence for a while, until Steph suddenly has a thought. “Is it weird that you can take bullets without flinching, but groans at this, or is it just me?”
Cass hums. “It’s a different kind of pain. Never had it before. Not prepared for it.”
“Okay, but is it weird, or is it just me?”
“It’s weird.”
“Are you ready to teach me that throw now?”
“Sure.” Cass pulls out her feet and motions for the towel. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you just because of this.”
Steph hands her the towel, and says, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
***
Dick is walking down the hallways of the Manor when he hears Cass swearing from inside a bathroom. Normally, that wouldn’t be a cause of alarm, but since the only reason he’s at the Manor today is because Cass has a ballet recital and everyone is going to go watch it, Dick calls out, “Cass? Is there something wrong?”
“No!” Cass’ voice replies. “Yes! No! I don’t know!”
Okay, that warrants further investigation. “Can I come in?”
Cass makes an affirmative sound, so Dick opens the door, just in time to see Cass putting on false eyelashes in a truly dangerous fashion. As in, almost putting it straight into her eyes. Yeah, something is wrong.
Of course, the false eyelashes do not stick the way it’s supposed to, because Cass is not putting it on properly. Cass swears, again, and picks up the fallen eyelashes from the sink. Dick has seen enough.
“Do you know how to put those on?” Dick says.
“No! Why do they keep falling down? I’m doing it exactly the way they told me to!”
Dick takes a look to the false eyelashes on Cass’ hands, then to Cass’ eyes. “It’s too long for your eyelids, Cass.” Dick frowns. It has been a while since he has to handle false eyelashes. “At least, I think that’s why they keep falling down.”
Cass, who has been furiously dabbing glue to the false eyelashes, looks up to him with wide eyes. “You know how to do this?”
“I mean… I guess, yeah? My mom used to put this on for performances. She would let me help, sometimes.”
“You know how to do this!”
Dick takes a look at Cass’ hopeful face, then says, “Do you want me to do it for you?”
“ Please .”
“It’s been a while since I’ve put this on on anybody. It’s not going to be perfect.”
“ I don’t care . Just put it on.”
“Okay, then. Do you have scissors?”
Cass looks at him, and scrunchs her nose as she says, “No.”
“I’ll get one. Do you want to…,” Dick searches his memory for the times he helped his mom put on false eyelashes, “...clean the glue from the eyelashes? Too much glue will make it stick less, if I’m not wrong.”
“How come too much glue makes it stick less ?”
“I think it’ll make it stiff or something. My mom always cleans the glue off before putting it on. You don’t have to, if you don’t want,” Dick says, but Cass is already picking off the dried glue from the false eyelashes.
When he returns with scissors that’s suitable enough ( not the kitchen scissors, Master Dick), Cass is already sitting down on the toilet.
“Are you still sure about this? I’m not sure I can do a good job, Cass.”
“You will not be worse than me,” Cass says, which, considering she almost poked her eye out trying to put it on, Dick is inclined to (grudgingly) agree.
“Alright. Close your eyes.”
Cass obediently closes her eyes. Dick picks up the false eyelashes from the sink and starts to measure it to Cass’ eyes.
“You did this a lot,” Cass says.
“What? Make-up?”
Cass hums. “ Stage make-up.”
“Oh. I guess, yeah, back at the circus. I didn’t have to put on false eyelashes, though.” Dick dabs on the glue to the eyelashes and starts to gently place it to Cass’ eyelids. “But everything else, yeah. Can you open your eyes?”
Cass opens her eyes, and that makes it clear that one of the ends is misplaced. Dick makes a motion for her to close her eyes again.
“Can you do the rest of my make-up too?” Cass says while Dick is pulling down the misplaced end.
Dick stops, surveys the state of Cass’ face, noting the base already on and the mostly done eye make-up, then says, “You just need some blush and lipstick, and you’re done.”
“Do it anyway.”
Dick exhales out a small laugh. “Fine, little sister. Is there anything else I can do for you, oh most talented princess?”
Cass’s response is to stick out her tongue.
“Don’t do that! You’ll make it harder for the lipstick to stay on!”
Cass opens one eye (one that’s not the one Dick is working on now, thank god) and locks eyes with Dick as she proceeds to lick her entire lip. Dick should be annoyed, but he just laughs harder.
***
Damian watches his sister dance in the exercise room. Not the practice and training space down in the Cave, but in the exercise room upstairs that Father remade to be a dance floor with floor-to-ceiling mirrors after too many incidents of pointe shoes flying in the Cave. Cassandra is truly a master of her body, and watching her do this, a very different use of her body than fighting, is mesmerizing. Damian has watched Cassandra’s dancing before, of course, the entire family went out to watch Cassandra’s recital, but that was with make-up and costume and stage-lights. This, just Cassandra with her leotard and tights in the bare room, is somehow a purer and more hypnotizing version.
It has been brought to Damian’s attention that he should do more moving sketches. Damian reviewed his drawings and concluded that that suggestion has value. He has been drawing more still-life lately, and it would be well to branch out from it. So here he is, debating whether or not to ask Cassandra to allow him to sketch her in her practice.
Damian is tempted to just start drawing, but Richard had said to ask for permission before drawing anyone after Damian had just started sketching his brother’s acrobatics practice. Before Damian can decide on anything though, Cassandra notices him and beckons him over.
“Cain,” Damian greets.
Cassandra tilts her head.
Well, now or never, Damian supposes. With her body-language reading capabilities, Cassandra might already know what Damian is there to do and is simply waiting him out. “May I sketch your dancing?”
Cassandra smiles. “Of course, little brother.” And without waiting for further clarification, she simply moves backward enough to not kick Damian with her dancing and starts where she left off. Damian, perplexed but satisfied enough not to make a fuss, sits down on the wooden floor and opens his sketchbook. He has never sketched a person dancing ballet before, and this is a welcome challenge.
As if she knows what is going on, Cassandra switches her routine, moving to a slower piece with lots of holds and balances, all without losing her graceful movements. It is infinitely easier to sketch this routine, especially with Damian never drawing ballet movements before.
Damian doesn’t say anything. He has a feeling that his sister already knows his appreciation for the change. Why be redundant and say it?
It’s a surprisingly pleasant way to spend an afternoon, especially when Cassandra grows tired of watching Damian sketch and drags him into joining her in a routine. He protests at first, only to give in eventually. And if he ends the session with laughter, well, nobody has to know.
(And if he plans on giving Cassandra a painting of her dancing sometime in the future, well, nobody has to know that either.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
written for the @batmanbingo2020 square “Superboy”
Relationship: Tim Drake & Duke Thomas, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Characters: Duke Thomas, Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake
Additional Tags: Little Brothers, Meet the Family, POV Duke Thomas, basically duke is a little shit to kon and tim
Summary:
Duke tilts his head, squinting in confusion. “A thing? What thing? You aren’t taking my brother out on a date, are you?” The way Kon’s eyes widen is too funny not to laugh, but he holds himself together, determined. “Excuse me, but what exactly are your intentions with him?”
Batman Bingo is a all-fandom event. All are welcome to participate. There are no limitations on what you may write for this event!
The card order form is open! Find the form on my profile. You may also submit trope requests, if you want to see more added to the list of options.
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Select at least 25 prompts from the list and you’ll receive a card with a random assortment of those prompts. Then, try to get BINGO by writing fics for each prompt! You may write anything, any length, and any ship, but you can only mark off one square per fic. Please be sure to tag your work NSFW if appropriate.
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Tag your work with #batmanbingo2020 or @ this blog, and I’ll reblog all SFW works!
Cards will be sent out final week of December or first week of January! Reblog this and spread the word!
Warnings: Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Major Character Death
Huge thanks to @batmanbingo2020 for the prompt card! Your card was the best gift that week <3
~
It was no secret that Damian loved drawing. On warm, breezy autumn nights he’d sit on the balcony and paint the swirls of colors that dappled the trees with Alfred curled up beside him. On winter mornings he’d wake up to the cool, crisp air on his face and try to recreate the beautiful, intricate snow that would fall and decorate everything it touched in a misty wonderland of white. Summer bustled with life, and the bright lights and laughing people would contrast with the foggy skyline of skyscrapers, and in spring flowers bloomed and the animals danced with joy.
Damian loved drawing the same way that Tim loved photography, because he could capture such happiness and beauty for forever before it was bound to die. A spark of warmth could be summoned on a dreary evening just by flipping open his sketchbook.
And so, Damian loved drawing everything around him, from the dusty, aristocratic furniture of the Manor to his family, and of course, nature. Anything that captured his attention and heart would earn a special place in his sketchbook.
But everything changed when one day, he met a boy in the attic.
~~~
When Damian had first moved in, he had brought some art supplies from the League. While Talia wanted him to master all of the arts, they didn’t encourage drawing nearly as much as they did in martial skill. The manor was huge, sure, but he had remembered that some of his supplies are kept up in the storage.
Itching for his traditional inks, Damian climbed into the attic. It was dusty and dark - but not as much from unuse. Drake used to more frequently come up here to develop his photos. This area, draped with shadows and isolated from the rest of the Manor, made a good darkroom for him where he could keep his photos away from the light while he dipped them in the chemicals. He was filling through the boxes stacked up in one corner when he saw a glow from a corner of the attic.
“Tt. Drake’s being careless,” he had started to mutter, when he realized something that he would never admit. While Tim would be sloppy when running on sleepless nights, one thing that he’d never be too careful about were his photos. Damian remembered once when Tim accidentally turned on a light in his darkroom, and a piercing screech could be heard through every single edge of the Manor. And really, the Manor was huge. His photo ended up absorbing too much sunlight and he had to throw away his precious film.
In short, Tim would never leave a light on near his photos. Besides, when was the last time he had been here, anyway? As they were growing up, Damian’s brothers moved further away from the family to pursue their own life, and somewhat abandoned some hobbies that they used to enjoy, when they still had the time to.
Damian cautiously approached the dim light. At first, it was just a muddy speck of light that even his sharp eyesight couldn’t catch onto. Once he edged closer, he saw a boy, not even much older than himself. He was transparent, and glowed softly in blue, but some faded colors still remained. His black hair, his piercing blue-green eyes, and his strong jawline and tanned skin. However, there was something else about him that also remained.
The boy was completely battered up. Damian knew that it was an understatement, judging by the boy’s condition. He was cut up and his bones jutted out at awkward angles. His skull was smashed in. Some pieces of his flesh were torn off, leaving cracked bones. Blood was still trailing down his body. It looked like he had been beaten in with a crowbar and blown up.
And what he was hardly wearing - were the tattered remains of the Robin uniform.
Damian let out a shriek that would rival Tim’s himself.
Read the rest at https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474486/chapters/53702455! I most likely would make this a series.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: General Audiences
Category: Gen
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Jum Grodon, Catherine Todd (mentioned)
Summary: Dick knows the importance of promises. His parents taught him early on that he's never to break one, so he's also careful when he makes a promise. He won't make one if he can't keep it. With this one though? He might need some help from his mentor and guardian to make sure this one is kept as well.
Or: Dick finds himself a stray Jason.
He’s tiny. Impossibly and adorably tiny.
Dick knows that there are other things – more important things – he should think about, like is he alright? Is he hurt? What happened? How did he get here?
But all he can think about are the black curls, ruling freely on his head and the big eyes, looking back up at him in both fear and awe. His clothes are tattered and dirty, as is the bit of skin not covered by cloth. In between the dirt Dick can see bruises and – is that blood?
Dick’s hand grips the Batmobiles door more tightly as he watches the boy cower on the other side of the backseat. He can’t possibly imagine who would dare to hurt a little boy. Then again, he’s seen enough in his time as Robin to know better. Adults are capable of horrible things if the price is right or even just to get rid of some pent-up anger.
“I’m sorry.” The voice is impossibly small and barely reaches Dick’s ears. He watches confused as the boy tries to put even more distance between them, though unsuccessful. His back is already pressed against the other door of the car.
Dick knows the look in the boy’s eyes, though he can’t think of a reason as to why it appeared there. Robin might be relatively new to Gotham, but by now the citizens know he’s here to help them. To keep them safe.
But the little boy before him looks terrified of him.
“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” Dick tries to reassure the boy, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect. Instead, the other glances a bit to his left, before swiftly returning his gaze back to Dick. The movement is so quick Dick almost misses it but luckily, he doesn’t. Just like in one of his comics, he can feel a lamp light up over his head.
He quickly loosens his grip on the door and tries to relax further.
The response is immediate, as the boy’s shoulders slump and his fearful gaze starts to disappear.
While Dick is relieved to see him calm down a bit, the action also confirms his suspicion. He was scared of Dick. Scared that I would hurt him. And all because Dick forgot one of the major rules Bruce taught him when handling an abuse victim.
And as much as it pains him, that’s what the little boy before him is. At least his behavior and outer appearance so far hints towards it. And in all his righteous fury at the adults who did this, Dick made the boy belief that his anger was aimed at him.
He might be Robin for quite some time now, but, apparently, he’s still making mistakes. Or maybe it’s the fact that they’re not in the field right now. They’re in the Batcave, a place to calm down, relax and lose the tensions of patrol, and somehow the boy before him managed to sneak into the Batmobile without Bruce or Dick noticing.
