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Batman : We'd like the full treatment, please.
Minerva : Well of course. Register for both. Yourself and your son.
Batman : [awkward pause] Although I'd be proud if he were, this is not my son, this is Robin the Boy Wonder. I'm Batman.
————
Dick paced back and forth in his room back at stately Wayne Manor after he and Bruce had successfully sent the villainess Minerva and her fellow foul fiends up the river.
Dick felt his nerves fraught with nagging insecurities triggered by Batman and Robin’s most recent mission. The dynamic duo hadn’t had time to discuss the awkward insinuation made by Minerva at Minerva’s Mineral Spa.
’This is not my son.’
On one hand, Dick knew that of course Batman couldn’t acknowledge his closeness or relationship to Robin whilst in costume, but Dick felt unsettled at the ease with which Bruce was able to shrug off the assumption of him as a son.
Dick got through the tense moment at the spa with a deep breath and refocused by convincing himself that surely either Batman, or Bruce once they returned home, would have said something to reassure him.
But no words of comfort or explanation ever came. Instead, Batman rushed off without a word, taking the Compressed Steam Batpole Lift back up to the manor the instant they returned to the cave.
Batman had to hurry home in order for Bruce Wayne to take Commissioner Gordon’s daughter, Miss Barbara Gordon out on their previously scheduled date.
Dick took a seat on his bed, and he wondered for the first time where he actually stood in Bruce’s life.
Dick replayed the countless times Bruce had introduced him as his ‘youthful ward’, and had addressed him directly as his ‘chum’ or sometimes in jest, Bruce even called him, ‘old man’.
Dick knew that Bruce cared for him, but found his confidence of that supposed knowledge tested by dark inner voices now that he was alone.
‘Heck’, Dick argued internally, ‘Bruce bought me that sensational red convertible on my 16th birthday. Not to mention the incredible telescope, and fancy suits,’
Dick’s nagging insecurities taunted him back and insisted that Bruce bought him material things out of obligation like a legal guardian might be bound to do. But what about actual affection?
Dick reflected that he never received hugs from Bruce, only firm handshakes and sometimes a clap on the shoulder. He had never heard Bruce utter the words, ‘I love you,’ like a parent would say to their actual child.
Like Dick’s own parents used to say to him when they had been alive.
Dick certainly knew in his own mind that he loved Bruce so very much. He looked up to the man; respected his intelligence and strength, and listened diligently to all of the life lessons Bruce imparted.
Bruce was always guiding Dick and the teen always took the wiser man’s words to heart.
Dick remembered their exchange one frustrating afternoon at the piano when his ‘aunt’ Harriet was forcing him to practice:
’What's so important about Chopin?’
‘All music is important, Dick. It's the universal language. One of our best hopes for the eventual realization of the brotherhood of man.’
‘Gosh Bruce, yes, you're right. I'll practice harder from now on.’
Dick practiced the piano extra hard for months afterwards during every spare moment he had in between his school studies and crime fighting. He pretended not to notice Bruce subtly plugging his ears and wincing at his best attempts at playing Chopin.
He never wanted to let Bruce down, and was starved for any praise from his mentor and father figure.
Dick was pulled from his fretful thoughts by Alfred’s light knock on his door.
“Master Dick, I thought you might be hungry so I took the liberty of bringing up an evening snack,”
Alfred set the tray with some freshly baked cookies and a glass of milk down on the desk in Dick’s room,
“Is anything the matter, Master Dick? You seem rather troubled,”
“Alfred, is Bruce back yet?”
“No, Master Dick, he called to inform that he would be visiting Miss Gordon’s residence after the restaurant and that he would be back much later,”
Alfred cleared his throat and after a moment’s consideration the butler added,
“Master Bruce informed that Miss Gordon wished to show him her...ahem...personal library.”
Dick wished he could tell Alfred that the cover story was not needed. He knew Bruce wasn’t actually going to go look at any books, and he understood that Bruce wasn’t called a ‘Millionaire Playboy’ for no reason.
Dick was 16 after all, so he did know what sex was, based on his sexual education class at Woodrow Wilson High, and he knew that Bruce had a lot of it. Mainly with the librarian, Miss Gordon these days.
Dick ultimately decided not to make both himself and Alfred feel awkward, so he just nodded along and played naive.
“Are you sure you are feeling alright, Master Dick? You do look rather pale,”
“I think I’m just a little tired out, Alfred. But gosh, thanks for bringing up this food. It looks terrific! I’ll just finish up my Algebra homework and then get some rest,”
“Very well, Master Dick. I shall be dusting the Batcave if you need me.”
Alfred left Dick alone with his thoughts again.
————
Dick continued to contemplate his situation alone in his room for hours.
Bruce’s words pummelled into his brain over and over,
’This is not my son.’
’This is not my son.’
’This is not my son.’
’This is not my son.’
’This is not my son.’
’This is not my son.’
’This is not my son.’
’This is not my son.’
Dick finally succumbed to the tears he had been holding in. Dick never allowed himself to cry. He never wanted Bruce to feel that his young partner was unhappy or not strong enough to handle their crime fighting adventures.
Goodness, Dick had never even cried when he and Bruce would find themselves in seemingly hopeless traps...and being mere moments away from their own doom in many cases, such as Clock King’s giant hourglass trap, nearly being frozen to death in frosty freezie machines, or being strapped to giant spinning propellers by The Riddler.
Dick hadn’t even cried when he was almost fed to Crocodiles by King Tut or to Tigers by Catwoman.
But thoughts of being rejected by Bruce hurt and frightened Dick more deeply than any villain ever could.
The unfamiliar sensation of wet tears streaming down his face brought back memories of the last time he had genuinely cried.
The night his parents died.
Dick flopped down face first onto his pillow and gasped for air between his muffled sobs. All of his feelings past and present bubbled to the surface mercilessly.
Dick remembered feeling so desperately afraid and alone like this right after his parents had died, but as he grew closer to Bruce, Alfred, and Aunt Harriet, and as he worked to fight crime alongside Batman, he felt wanted and whole again.
Dick felt as though he belonged somewhere and that he had a new family he could rely on.
This feeling was first challenged when he was recently told (when he had turned 16) that Aunt Harriet was not actually his aunt or any other extended relative to him at all, but rather a live-in nanny appointed by the state to ensure that the all male household was caring for Dick appropriately.
Now that he was 16, Aunt Harriet’s commitment to his case was over and she sure didn’t stick around any longer than she needed to.
Dick understood that ‘Aunt Harriet’ had done her job and had moved on. He tried not to take it personally. She was always genuinely caring and motherly towards him, which the young man supposed he should only be grateful for.
’This is not my son.’
Bruce’s voice echoed in Dick’s exhausted brain again.
Dick could feel the paranoia and fear consume him as he remembered that in 2 short years his Wardship would be over.
Then what? Where would he go? What would he do? How would he live and survive? He couldn’t expect someone who wasn’t his actual parent to keep supporting him, could he? Would Bruce even want to have anything to do with him anymore?
He wouldn’t be the, ‘Boy Wonder’, so what would he be good for any more?
‘Oh heck, I can’t even beat Bruce at Chess. Why would he want a dumb, useless man living in the manor?’
Dick’s negative mind spiralled out of control.
Eventually he gave up trying to restrain his sobs and just flipped over onto his back and openly cried for what felt like hours.
————
Dick was still out of it, in a panicked, zoned-out daze with unending tears streaming down his face when his bedside lamp was flipped on.
Bruce’s worried face peered down at him as the older man kneeled on the bed next to Dick.
“Chum? Chum?! Dick!”, Bruce pleaded for his ward to answer him while lightly slapping Dick on the cheeks.
“Dick, answer me! What’s happened?! Is it something from the Mineral Spa? Was there some sort of toxin in the persimmon pressurizing chamber we were trapped in?”
Bruce fished out a universal Bat-Antidote pill from his suit jacket pocket. He carried the pills with him even as a civilian... ‘always be prepared’ as he preached to Robin.
He forced the dissolving pill into Dick’s mouth hoping it would calm the boy down. Since it was a universal antidote, it also helped to alleviate anxiety attacks.
After a few minutes, Dick started to breathe normally instead of in short, sharp breaths.
Dick’s tear ducts dried up as he focused on Bruce’s face. He didn’t miss the swollen looking lips, disheveled hair, and hickeys present on his guardian’s neck. Dick’s first coherent thought was how glad he was that Batman’s cowl would cover up those hickeys.
“Are you with me, Old Chum?” Bruce asked firmly but gently,
“Yes, Bruce. I think so”,
“Can you remember what happened? What caused this reaction? Was it some chemical agent from Minerva’s?”, Bruce asked,
Dick contemplated opening up about the fears that had been torturing him all night. He wondered if he should just ask Bruce about his comments at the spa. Whether he meant as much to Bruce as Bruce meant to him. What his future would hold when he was no longer a ‘Ward’.
But then again, he realized he had no right to expect anything more from a man who had already given him so much. How could he possibly demand more? Dick felt that Bruce knew what he said, and if he really thought it wasn’t true, he would tell Dick willingly instead of making Dick force the issue.
Dick swallowed hard, put a shaky smile on his face and feigned the tough, resilient Boy Wonder persona people assumed him to be,
“Holy hallucinations, Bruce! I don’t really know what happened. Gee, it sure is a good thing you carry those Universal Bat-Antidote Pills!”
“Indeed, Chum. Now then, time to get some sleep.”
As Bruce prepared to leave the room, Alfred entered and announced,
“Sir, it’s the red phone,”
“Thank you, Alfred”, Bruce began to stride out of the room to take the emergency call from Commissioner Gordon.
Dick leapt out of bed, not willing to be left out of a caper,
“Dick, old fella, I think you should sit this one out,”
“Heck no, Bruce! I’m right as rain, promise!”
Looking his young ward over, he frowned at Dick’s puffy red eyes but relented upon seeing how keen the youngster was to join in on the crime fighting.
“Well there’s no time to lose then, let’s go,”
According to the Commssioner’s phone call, The Joker had escaped Gotham State Penitentiary and witnesses reported seeing him brandishing a gun.
Robin repressed all of his lingering fears for his future and figured he had 2 more years before he needed to worry about it, and 2 more years to keep proving his worth to Bruce/Batman. Right now there were bigger issues at hand that didn’t involve his selfish worries.
Bruce hung up the red phone, flipped back the head on the bronze bust of Shakespeare which contained the switch that controlled the sliding bookcase which concealed the secret entrance to the Batcave via the Batpoles.
Dick flipped the switch before Bruce flipped the head of the bust back into place,
“To the Batpoles!”, Bruce declared.
~
Unbeknownst to the both of them as they zoomed out of the Batcave in the Batmobile, The Joker’s actions that night, (and one gunshot wound to the shoulder) would lead to Bruce making a premature decision about Dick’s future.