Alfred silently harbors doubts about your ability to handle an angry little boy. No one can replace Bruce Wayne's parents.

No one ever can.

And that's fine.

It doesn't matter that Bruce sometimes wakes up because there's pressure on his chest, his mother's scream ringing in his ears and his father's collapsing chest on his mind. He shouldn't want to crawl into your bed when nightmares strike.

That's— it's fine. Bruce is old enough to brave the nights alone. Robin can't give in to nightmares any more than to foul crooks.

And—

"The Bat needs a Robin," Bruce mutters. Alfred said so, after all.

The study is a forbidden territory to Bruce, with its polished wood and thick carpets. Stacks of documents and diagrams lie scattered, none of them piquing Bruce's interest. Both the carpet and rain outside muffle his steps as he cautiously advances, observing.

Slender fingers trail under the desk, searching for hidden compartments or switches. You strike him as the type—paranoid, meticulous. Bar the main entrance of the Batcave to Bruce and he'll find another way.

Bruce detests ignorance; whether it's failing to realize his custard is still piping hot or unknowingly leading his parents through Crime Alley.

His pale blue eyes inspect the glasses left on the dark wood. He picks them up, dons them, and looks around, only to freeze in his tracks.

In the doorway looms the Bat. Bruce's shoulders instinctively curl, his face shutters closed. But beneath it, he's still just a boy. There's no hiding the guilt in his expression, reminiscent of when Alfred and you confronted him about his last schoolyard brawl. Emotions drive him to recklessness. Stubbornly, with a hint of childish naivety, Bruce tilts his chin up.

"You're not letting me be Robin," Bruce accuses, his voice wavering. It's not his fault he was injured last time. "Why? You've allowed it before."