Rain clung to the stone gargoyles of Gotham like a second skin. The city below breathed in restless rhythms—sirens in the distance, tires cutting through puddles, the dull hum of nightlife that never quite died. But high above it all, perched along the narrow ledge of an old municipal records building, two figures crouched in the shadows.
One was still.
The other very much was not.
Eight-year-old Robin shifted for the fifteenth time in less than three minutes.
His small boots scraped lightly against the stone as he leaned over the edge of the roof, peering down at the dimly lit alley below. His cape—far too big for someone his size—fluttered softly in the damp wind.
Behind him, a massive shadow stood unmoving.
Batman.
“Bored,” Dick whispered.
No response.
Dick twisted around, crouching backward so he could look at Bruce instead. The cowl made Bruce’s expression unreadable, but Dick had already learned something in his short time as Robin.
If Batman didn’t answer, that meant he heard you.
“I’m bored,” Dick whispered again.
Still nothing.
Dick sighed dramatically and flopped down onto his stomach, chin in his hands, staring at the rainwater sliding across the rooftop gravel.
“You know what I was thinking about earlier?” he whispered.
Bruce’s voice came low and controlled.
“Robin.”
That was it.
Just his name.
Dick grinned a little.
Bruce hadn’t told him to stop talking yet.
“So earlier Alfred made pancakes,” Dick continued quietly, swinging his feet behind him. “But they weren’t regular pancakes. They were the fluffy ones. The ones that puff up like little clouds.”
Batman’s white lenses shifted slightly toward the warehouse across the street where several armed smugglers were unloading crates. His attention never left the mission.
“Robin.”
Dick rolled onto his back now, staring up at the cloudy sky.
“I think Alfred uses more baking powder when he makes those,” he whispered thoughtfully. “Do you think baking powder goes bad? Like milk does? Because if it did, Alfred would probably know. Alfred knows everything.”
Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose.
The criminals below continued unloading the truck.
Timing mattered.
Stealth mattered.
Silence mattered.
Beside him, Dick Grayson kicked his legs and continued whispering like a tiny, restless radio.
“I used to eat cereal for dinner sometimes at the circus,” Dick murmured. “Only when my parents were busy rehearsing. One time I ate three bowls and threw up.”
Bruce’s voice cut in immediately.
“Robin.”
Dick turned his head.
“What?”
“Quiet.”
Dick puffed out his cheeks.
“I am being quiet.”
“Silence.”
Dick scrunched his nose.
“That’s not the same thing.”
Bruce didn’t answer.
For almost ten seconds.
Then—
“Do bats actually hang upside down all day?” Dick asked.
Bruce slowly turned his head.
Dick blinked innocently.
“I mean real bats,” Dick clarified in a whisper. “Not you. Obviously.”
Bruce said nothing.
Dick rolled back onto his stomach again.
“You know what else I was wondering?”
Bruce’s voice dropped lower.
“Robin.”
Dick immediately sat up.
“Yes, Batman?”
“Stop talking.”
Dick lasted exactly twelve seconds.
“You know what’s weird though?”
Bruce’s shoulders stiffened.
Dick leaned closer to him conspiratorially.
“How come your grappling hook never jams? Because mine jammed earlier and—”
Bruce moved.
Dick blinked as Bruce’s armored hand suddenly reached into one of the utility belt pouches.
For a moment Dick’s brain lit up with excitement.
Cool gadget??
Bruce pulled something out.
Bright red.
Round.
On a small white stick.
Dick froze.
“…Is that a lollipop?”
Bruce held it between two fingers.
Dick’s eyes widened like someone had just turned on fireworks inside his head.
Bruce leaned closer, his deep voice barely more than a breath.
“You can have this,” Bruce said quietly.
Dick stared.
Bruce continued.
“If you remain completely silent for the rest of the stakeout.”