Wayne Manor - Morning After Copperhead's Attack
Sunlight crept through the partially drawn curtains of Wayne Manor's east wing study. Dust motes danced in the golden beams, undisturbed by the still figure at the desk. Bruce Wayne stared at the silver-framed photograph of Talia, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the frame. The morning light caught his bloodshot eyes, betraying his sleepless night despite his otherwise composed exterior.
Hours had passed since Talia had slipped away from the manor just before dawn, leaving Bruce alone with the lingering effects of the Lazarus water and the phantom sensation of her touch. His body had healed at an astonishing rate; ribs knitted, lacerations closed, even old scars faded to near invisibility. But his mind remained in turmoil, caught between razor-sharp clarity and disturbing flashes of primal rage that rose unbidden, then receded like a toxic tide.
Alfred's quiet knock drew Bruce back to the present. "Master Bruce," he said, entering with a tray bearing a pot of black coffee and simple breakfast. "Dr. Thompkins' latest blood analysis suggests the Lazarus compound is metabolizing more rapidly than anticipated. Your accelerated healing appears to be—"
"Temporary," Bruce finished, his voice rough from disuse. He didn't turn from the window. "The enhanced strength too. I can already feel it fading."
"Indeed, sir. Though the psychological effects may linger somewhat longer."
Bruce finally turned, revealing eyes that held a feverish intensity. "How's Dick?"
"Still asleep, remarkably enough," Alfred replied, setting the tray on the desk. "The young master was quite thoroughly exhausted by last night's... unauthorized excursion."
Bruce's jaw tightened at the reminder. "He stole the Batcycle, Alfred. Engaged Deathstroke directly after explicitly promising he wouldn't."
"A promise extracted under duress, one might argue," Alfred observed mildly. "And one made by a ten-year-old boy who had just discovered his parents' killer was within reach."
"This isn't a game." Bruce's fist clenched, his knuckles whitening. "He could have been killed. If Talia hadn't—" He cut himself off, the memory of how close Dick had come to death at Deathstroke's hands sending a fresh wave of that alien rage through him. A pen on the desk snapped between his fingers.
Alfred observed the broken pen with clinical interest. "The enhanced strength may be fading, but it seems not entirely gone. Perhaps some controlled exercise might help you... regulate these outbursts?"
Bruce forced his fingers to unclench, breathing deeply through the wave of anger as ink dripped from his fingers. These episodes had been occurring with decreasing frequency but increasing intensity since Talia had administered the Lazarus water. A flash of memory; Ra's al Ghul emerging from the concentrated pit waters, eyes blazing with inhuman fury as he cut down three League members before regaining control; sent an involuntary shudder through him.
"I need to finish analyzing the data we collected from the Falcones' operation," Bruce said, deliberately changing the subject. "There's still a connection we're missing between Alberto and Pierce."
Before Alfred could respond, the sound of running footsteps in the hallway announced Dick's arrival seconds before the boy burst through the door, hair still tousled from sleep.
"Bruce! You're up!" The boy's face lit up, though it immediately shifted to concern as he took in the older man's haggard appearance. "How are you feeling? Alfred said the Lazarus water might have side effects but that it saved your life and—"
"I'm fine," Bruce interrupted, his tone sharper than intended. The brightness of Dick's energy felt like sandpaper against his raw nerves. "Alfred, could you give us a moment?"
The butler raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Of course, sir. I'll be preparing the medical bay for Dr. Thompkins' follow-up examination. She was most insistent about monitoring your recovery."
As Alfred departed, Dick approached Bruce with undisguised eagerness. "So when do we start? I've been thinking about what happened with Deathstroke, and I know I messed up by going alone, but if we were partners for real, we could—"
"We're not partners, Dick," Bruce cut in, rising from his chair with deliberate control. "Last night proved that. You disobeyed a direct instruction, stole equipment, and nearly got yourself killed."
The boy's face fell, but only momentarily. "I know, and I'm sorry about taking the Batcycle without permission. But I helped! That lady—Talia—she said I fought well, just needed more strategy. And I learned so much watching her fight Copperhead! If you'd just give me proper training instead of just the basic stuff—"
"This isn't about training," Bruce said, moving to the window to put distance between them. The morning light spilled across his face, highlighting the tension in his features. "It's about judgment. About understanding the consequences of your actions."
"I do understand!" Dick protested, following him. "But sometimes you have to take risks when people are in danger. You do it all the time as Batman!"
"I've spent years preparing. Decades." Bruce turned, his gaze intense. "I've trained with the world's greatest masters, pushed my body beyond limits most people can't imagine. And I still nearly died last night."
Dick's chin lifted stubbornly. "Then train me like they trained you. Make me your apprentice for real, not just giving me detective puzzles and basic self-defense. I'm ready, Bruce. I'm not afraid."
"That's exactly the problem," Bruce said, the words emerging with quiet intensity. "You should be afraid. Fear keeps you alive when you're facing people like Deathstroke. Like Copperhead. Professional killers who've spent their lives perfecting the art of death."
"My parents weren't afraid," Dick countered, his voice tight with emotion. "They flew without nets because they trusted their training. They trusted each other. We could be like that—I could watch your back while you watch mine."
Bruce felt another surge of that foreign rage and turned away, fighting to master it. The Lazarus water in his system made his emotions volatile, unpredictable. He needed solitude, not this conversation with its emotional complications. Not now, when he could barely trust his own reactions.
"The answer is no, Dick," he said finally, his voice deliberately cold. "Batman works alone."
"That's not true!" Dick's voice rose, frustration breaking through his usually respectful demeanor. "You work with Gordon. With Alfred. With that Talia person! Why not me?"
"Because you're ten years old!" Bruce snapped, whirling back to face him. "Because I made a promise to protect you, not lead you into danger!"
"I don't need your protection! I need your help finding justice for my parents!" Dick's small fists clenched at his sides, his face flushed with emotion. "You're just afraid—afraid of having someone close to you again, afraid of letting anyone in!"
Bruce felt something crack in his careful control. "You have no idea what I'm afraid of," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register closer to Batman's growl than Bruce Wayne's measured tones. "You have no idea what it means to face these people night after night, to carry the weight of an entire city's suffering. This isn't a circus performance, Dick. There are no spotlights, no applause. Just blood and pain and loss."
Dick flinched at the mention of the circus but recovered quickly. "You think I don't know about loss?" he demanded, tears welling in his eyes. "I watched my parents fall! I heard them—" His voice broke, but he pushed through. "I'm not some stupid kid playing dress-up. I need this. I need purpose."
"And I need you alive," Bruce countered. "Which is why this discussion is over. You'll continue your academic training. The physical and detective work we've started. But field operations are out of the question until you're older. Much older."
"That's not fair!" Dick's voice rose to a shout, his composure finally shattering completely. "You can't keep me locked up in this museum while Deathstroke is out there! I thought you of all people would understand!"
"I understand better than anyone," Bruce said, his control slipping further. A vase on the nearby table vibrated as his voice resonated with unnatural power—another side effect of the Lazarus water. "Which is why I'm saying no."
"You can't stop me," Dick challenged, jutting his chin out. "If I could find Deathstroke once, I can do it again. With or without your help."
Something dark and primal surged through Bruce then—a protective instinct twisted by the Lazarus effects into something more volatile. He closed the distance between them in two strides, looming over the boy.
"As long as you live under my roof, you will follow my rules," he said, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying a weight that seemed to fill the room. "This isn't negotiable, Dick."
For a moment, the boy seemed to shrink back, instinctively responding to the dangerous energy radiating from Bruce. But then, with a courage that would have impressed Bruce under different circumstances, Dick straightened to his full height.
"Or what?" The boy challenged, voice wavering but determined. "You'll throw me out? Send me to some orphanage where I can't bother your precious mission?" His eyes flashed, tears threatening but held back by sheer willpower. "That would be easier for you, wouldn't it? No complications. No responsibility. Just Batman and his crusade."
Bruce stared down at the small figure standing his ground against him. The boy's accusations struck with uncomfortable precision, each word finding vulnerable points in Bruce's psychological armor. The Lazarus water amplified his emotional response, making it harder to maintain the detachment that normally protected him from such confrontations.
"I took you in to protect you," Bruce said, struggling to keep his voice even. "Nothing about that decision was 'easy.'"
"You took me in because I saw who killed my parents," Dick countered, the hurt bleeding through his defiance. "Because I was a witness. A tactical asset."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Dick's eyes were too knowing, too perceptive for his age. "You've been training me to help with your investigation. Teaching me to analyze evidence, track patterns. I'm useful to Batman. But the moment I try to actually do something with what you've taught me—"
"The moment you put yourself in danger," Bruce corrected, his temper rising again. "The moment you decided that a few days of basic instruction qualified you to confront professional killers."
"But it's okay for you to do it?" Dick demanded. "You go out every night barely recovered from the last beating! You came home half-dead after Copperhead poisoned you! Why is it noble when you risk your life but childish when I want to fight for my parents?"
Bruce ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. "Because I'm an adult who made an informed choice. Because I spent years preparing before I ever put on the cowl. Because—"
"Because you don't think I'm good enough," Dick interrupted, his voice cracking. "Even though I helped you beat Taskmaster. Even though Talia said I had potential. You still see me as just some orphaned circus kid you got stuck with."
"That's not what this is about," Bruce insisted, though part of him wondered if there was some truth to the accusation. Was he underestimating Dick because of his age? Because of his background? Or was it something more personal? Something tied to his own fears about what Dick's presence in his life meant?
The boy must have sensed Bruce's momentary uncertainty, because he pressed his advantage. "Then what is it about? Really? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you want me to be just good enough to help with research but not good enough to actually make a difference. To actually honor my parents by stopping the people who killed them."
"Honor?" Bruce repeated, something inside him snapping at the word. The Lazarus-induced rage surged, momentarily breaking through his control. "You think throwing yourself at killers like Deathstroke honors your parents? You think they would want to watch their son die the same way they did?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, Bruce knew he'd gone too far. Dick recoiled as if physically struck, his face draining of color.
"Dick," Bruce started, reaching toward him, immediately regretting the cruelty. "I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did," the boy whispered, raw pain etched across his features. "You meant every word." His expression hardened, grief transforming into something harder, colder. "At least now I know what you really think. That I'm not good enough. That I'll never be good enough."
"That's not what I said," Bruce tried again, but Dick was already backing away, shaking his head.
"You've been through all this," Dick continued, his voice gaining strength. "You lost your parents too. You felt exactly what I'm feeling. But instead of helping me, you're keeping me locked up like I'm made of glass." His face contorted with a mixture of grief and rage. "Or maybe you just don't want the competition. Maybe Batman likes being the only hero in Gotham."
Bruce's patience, already stretched thin by the Lazarus effects, reached its breaking point. "There are no heroes in Gotham, Dick. Just people trying to survive the darkness. And children who don't understand what they're so eager to throw themselves into."
"I understand more than you think," Dick shot back. "I understand that you'd rather fight alone than risk caring about someone again. I understand that it's easier for you to push people away than to admit you might need them."
Every word felt like it was tearing something open inside Bruce—old wounds he'd thought long scarred over. The boy's perceptiveness was almost frightening, seeing through defenses that had kept even those closest to Bruce at a careful distance.
"You've been here less than a week," Bruce said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Don't presume to understand me or my motivations."
"I don't have to presume anything," Dick replied. "I see it every day. The way you push Alfred away when he tries to help. The way that Talia person looked at you. The way you hide behind Batman so you don't have to be Bruce Wayne anymore."
Bruce felt his control slipping further, the Lazarus water's influence growing stronger as his emotional state deteriorated. The room seemed to pulse with his heartbeat, objects on shelves beginning to rattle with the unnatural energy radiating from him.
"Enough," he growled, the word carrying Batman's authority. "This conversation is over. Go to your room."
Dick stood his ground, seemingly oblivious to the danger signals Bruce was exhibiting. "Or what? You'll ground me? Lock me in the cave? I'm already a prisoner here!" His voice cracked with emotion. "At least before, at the circus, I was free. I had a family who believed in me. Who trusted me."
"And now they're gone," Bruce said, instantly regretting the bluntness but unable to stop himself. "Nothing will bring them back, Dick. Not vengeance. Not putting on a costume. Not getting yourself killed trying to be something you're not ready for."
"You don't get to decide what I'm ready for!" Dick shouted, tears finally breaking free and streaming down his face. "You're not my father! You'll never be my father! My father would have believed in me!"
The words hung in the air between them, raw and undeniable. For a fleeting moment, Bruce saw himself at that age—screaming similar words at Alfred after being denied permission to examine police files on his parents' case. The parallel sent a cold shock through him, momentarily clearing the Lazarus-induced haze from his mind.
But before Bruce could respond, Dick continued, his voice dropping to a wounded whisper. "My father would have understood. He would have helped me. Not... not treated me like I was too stupid to understand what I was asking for."
"Dick," Bruce started, his own voice softening as he recognized the depth of the boy's pain.
But Dick wasn't finished. "You think I don't know what could happen? You think I haven't had nightmares every single night about falling like they did? About hearing that sound again?" His small frame shook with barely suppressed sobs. "But at least if I'm doing something... at least if I'm trying to find justice... then maybe it all means something. Maybe they didn't die for nothing."
The words struck Bruce with devastating force, echoing his own tortured thoughts in the years after his parents' murder. The desperate search for meaning, for purpose, in an act of senseless violence. The need to transform grief into action, to make the unbearable somehow bearable by giving it purpose.
"Your parents didn't die for nothing," Bruce said quietly. "They died because evil people made evil choices. Nothing you do or don't do changes that."
"Then what's the point of Batman?" Dick demanded, wiping angrily at his tears. "If nothing changes anything, why do you go out there every night? Why do you fight?"
The question hung between them, so simple yet so profound. Bruce found himself without an immediate answer—at least, not one he could articulate in a way that would satisfy the wounded child before him.
"Because someone has to," he said finally. "Because if no one stands against the darkness, it consumes everything."
"Then let me stand with you," Dick pleaded, his anger giving way to raw need. "Let me make a difference too. My parents taught me everything they knew—how to move, how to fly, how to trust my instincts. It can't all be for nothing now."
Bruce shook his head, feeling the last of the Lazarus-influenced rage ebbing away, leaving exhaustion in its wake. "It's not that simple, Dick."
"Why not?" The boy demanded, his frustration returning. "Why can't it be that simple? You need help. I need purpose. We both lost our parents to killers who are still out there." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "We could help each other."
For a brief moment, Bruce allowed himself to consider it—to imagine Dick trained as a partner rather than a ward. The boy's natural abilities combined with proper instruction, his acrobatic skills complementing Batman's more grounded combat style. They could indeed be formidable together.
But then reality reasserted itself. Images of Dick broken and bleeding, of another small body in an alley, of promises made to the dead that he couldn't keep. The weight of responsibility was too great, the risk too immense.
"The answer is still no," Bruce said, his voice quieter but no less final. "This isn't about your capabilities, Dick. It's about my responsibility. I promised to keep you safe."
"You promised?" Dick repeated incredulously. "To who? My parents are dead, Bruce! The only promises that matter now are the ones we make to the living!"
"I promised myself," Bruce said simply. "And that's a promise I intend to keep."
Dick stared at him for a long moment, the fight gradually draining from his small frame. When he spoke again, his voice was hollow, defeated in a way that hurt Bruce more than his anger had.
"Then I guess we have nothing more to talk about." He straightened, wiping the last traces of tears from his face with a dignity beyond his years. "You've made your decision. And I'm just a kid, right? What I want doesn't matter."
"Dick, that's not—"
"YOU'RE NOT MY FATHER!" The words exploded from the boy with such force that they seemed to physically strike Bruce. Dick's face contorted with rage and grief, his small body trembling with the intensity of emotions too big for his frame to contain.
For a heartbeat, the room was utterly silent. Even the manor itself seemed to hold its breath.
Bruce stepped back, his expression closing off completely as he regained control. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly, terribly calm.
"No," he said quietly. "I'm not. I'm just the man who took you in when no one else would."
The coldness of his tone, more than the words themselves, seemed to finally penetrate Dick's anger. The boy's face crumpled, tears spilling down his cheeks as the fight drained out of him.
"Bruce, I—I didn't mean—"
"You should get ready for your lessons," Bruce interrupted, turning away. "Alfred has your schedule for today. We'll resume training on cognitive analysis this evening, assuming Dr. Thompkins clears me for physical activity."
The dismissal was unmistakable. Dick stood frozen for a moment, caught between defiance and remorse, before his shoulders slumped in defeat.
"Yes, sir," he said quietly, the formal address revealing the new distance between them more clearly than any argument could have. He turned and walked slowly to the door, pausing once to look back at Bruce's unyielding profile silhouetted against the morning light. Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
Bruce remained motionless until he was certain Dick was out of earshot. Then, with a single explosive movement, his fist slammed into the wall, cracking the antique plaster. Pain radiated up his arm, a welcome distraction from the turmoil in his mind.
"That went splendidly, sir," came Alfred's dry voice from the doorway. "Most educational for the boy, I'm sure."
Bruce didn't turn. "How much did you hear?"
"Enough," Alfred replied, moving to examine the damaged wall with professional displeasure. "I believe most of Gotham County heard the young master's declaration about your non-paternal status."
"He's right," Bruce said flatly. "I'm not his father. I'm his guardian—temporarily. Until we find Deathstroke and the people behind his parents' murder."
Alfred paused in his inspection of the wall to give Bruce a measured look. "Is that truly all you consider yourself to be? His caretaker until vengeance is achieved?"
"What else could I be, Alfred?" Bruce turned at last, his expression haunted. "I'm not qualified to raise a child. I spend my nights fighting psychopaths and criminals. I can barely maintain Bruce Wayne's public persona, let alone provide whatever emotional support a traumatized ten-year-old needs."
"And yet," Alfred observed, "you've been doing precisely that for nearly a week now. With more success than you credit yourself with, until this morning's... philosophical difference."
Bruce ran a hand through his hair, feeling the last of the unnatural strength ebbing from his system, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. "The Lazarus water affected my judgment. I should never have engaged him like that."
"Perhaps," Alfred conceded. "Though I suspect the water merely amplified what was already there—your fear for his safety, your recognition of yourself in his determination." He straightened a painting that had been knocked askew by Bruce's outburst. "And possibly, your terror at forming an attachment to someone so vulnerable to loss."
Bruce's jaw tightened. "This isn't about my issues, Alfred."
"Isn't it?" Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Master Bruce, you've spent the better part of a decade ensuring Batman remains solitary—a symbol rather than a man, untouchable and therefore unbreakable. Then this boy arrives, with his remarkable abilities and his painful parallel to your own tragedy, and suddenly the carefully constructed walls between Batman and human connection develop concerning cracks."
"I took him in because he witnessed his parents' murder and could identify one of the killers," Bruce insisted. "Because he had nowhere else to go. It was the right thing to do."
"Indeed it was," Alfred agreed mildly. "But I wonder if you've considered that it might also have been the right thing for you, not merely for him."
Bruce turned away again, unwilling to pursue that line of thought. "He wants to fight, Alfred. He wants to put on a mask and hunt the people who killed his parents. Sound familiar?"
"Distressingly so," Alfred acknowledged. "Though it bears noting that he, unlike someone else I could name, is actively seeking guidance rather than running off to the mountains of North Asia to find it among assassins and mystics."
The pointed reminder hung between them, loaded with the weight of Bruce's own history—his departure from Gotham at eighteen, the years Alfred had spent not knowing whether he was alive or dead, the man who had returned so fundamentally changed from the boy who had left.
"I can't let him follow that path," Bruce said finally. "I won't."
"Then perhaps," Alfred suggested gently, "you might consider offering him an alternative. One that honors his need for justice while providing the structure and protection your own journey lacked."
Bruce was silent for a long moment, staring out at the manor grounds where the morning mist was finally burning away under the strengthening sun. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but resolute.
"I need time to think, Alfred. And I need to be certain the Lazarus effects have fully cleared my system before I make any decisions regarding Dick's future training."
"Very reasonable, sir," Alfred said, recognizing the small concession in Bruce's words. "In the meantime, perhaps some gesture toward reconciliation might prevent the current frost from deepening into permafrost? The boy was most distressed when he left."
Bruce nodded once, his expression softening fractionally. "I'll speak with him after Dr. Thompkins' examination. Clear the air."
"Excellent, sir." Alfred moved to depart, then paused. "And Miss al Ghul? Will she be returning to assist with the investigation into Alberto Falcone's operation?"
A complex emotion flickered across Bruce's face. "Talia has her own agenda, Alfred. She provided what information she could, but the League has its own interests in this situation."
"Interests that conveniently aligned with protecting both you and Master Dick last night," Alfred observed. "Most fortuitous timing."
Bruce's expression closed again. "We've had this conversation before."
"Indeed we have, sir," Alfred acknowledged. "And I suspect we shall have it again, given Miss al Ghul's remarkable talent for appearing precisely when needed, only to vanish with the dawn."
"Alfred," Bruce warned.
"I merely observe, Master Bruce," the butler replied with dignified neutrality. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe Dr. Thompkins has arrived for your examination. She mentioned something about comprehensive neurological screening to assess the Lazarus water's psychological impact. I believe the term 'unprecedented recklessness' may have been employed."
Bruce suppressed a grimace. "Tell her I'll be down shortly."
"Very good, sir."
Alfred departed, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts and the lingering echo of Dick's words.
You're not my father!
The raw pain in the boy's voice had cut deeper than Bruce wanted to admit. He moved to his desk and sank into the chair, the morning's confrontation replaying in his mind with perfect clarity—one of the few benefits of his League training was an eidetic memory for conversations.
His gaze fell on the case files spread across the desk—evidence connecting Alberto Falcone to Alexander Pierce, transcripts of intercepted communications, financial records showing suspicious transfers between shell corporations. The work that had consumed him before Dick's arrival continued to demand his attention. Gotham's needs hadn't diminished simply because a grieving boy had entered his life.
And yet, as Bruce gathered the files into a neat stack, he found himself pausing over a sketch Dick had made yesterday—a detailed drawing of what the boy imagined his "crime-fighting costume" might look like. The design was clearly influenced by his circus background, bright colors and dramatic lines that would stand out starkly against Batman's shadowy presence. He'd labeled it "Robin" in careful block letters at the top of the page.
Robin's wings were beginning to spread.
The phrase had come to Bruce unbidden the night before, as he'd watched Dick analyzing power consumption patterns to locate Rachel Dawes. The boy's natural talent was undeniable—his acrobatic skill, his analytical mind, his determined spirit. Training him would be simple.
Keeping him safe would be impossible.
Bruce tucked the drawing into the middle of the stack, as if hiding it from sight could somehow resolve the conflict raging within him. He rose and moved toward the door, squaring his shoulders for the coming medical examination and the lecture that would inevitably accompany it.
Later, he would speak with Dick. Try to explain in rational terms why Batman worked alone, why the mission required solitude, why the risk was too great. He would be calm, methodical, logical.
And he would ignore the small voice whispering that perhaps Alfred was right—that his resistance had less to do with Dick's safety and more to do with his own fear of connection. Of loss. Of failing someone who trusted him completely.
Because acknowledging that truth would mean confronting the possibility that Batman's isolation was not a tactical necessity but a psychological shield—one that a determined ten-year-old boy with his parents' grace and courage had somehow managed to slip past.
And that was a vulnerability the Dark Knight simply could not afford.