Angel of Fear
by Kari Anna
Most teenagers could attest that they sometimes spent hours doing `nothing'. Or at least what adults would *call* nothing. What they were really doing, what Robin was doing just then, was thinking.
Staring at his ungloved right hand for a while, pondering its flexibility, its strength, its accuracy-- and *Why the hell can't feet throw R-knives like hands can anyway?* he'd wondered-- had led to thinking about gloves. Somehow the gloves had led him to thinking
*I haven't talked to him in a really long time. How long has it been? ...Almost a month, I think. Wonder what he's up to. Hmmm... in Gotham it'd be an hour earlier, so it'd be about ten. He's probably getting ready to go out on patrol.*
Dick sat up on his bed, toed off his boots, and then just stared at the carpet they'd landed on. For a moment, he didn't think at all. Just stared.
Then he lay down again, this time on his stomach.
*What is he to me, anyway? I still don't think of him as my dad. I had a dad. He died. Alfred fits the 'dad' role better than Bruce does anyway. I don't think Bruce knows how to be a dad. But if he's not my father-figure... well, fourteen years is a big age-gap for brothers. He doesn't treat me like one, either. I didn't have siblings, but I know how they act: tease each other, fight, and if anyone picks on them, the other gets pissy. He did have a tendency to get pissed off if anyone hurt me, but.... The label 'brother' just doesn't fit him. Our relationship is nothing like that.*
*So what IS it? Am I just the semi-irritating sidekick who's just there for show, to help his PR? Dear God. That makes me sound like one of those girls he always has on his arm at the big social events.*
Robin took the glove off his left hand and set it on the coverlet, atop its twin.
*IS that what I am to him? He hasn't said anything, and I haven't caught any clues along those lines. Then again, he's Mr. Morality, so of course he wouldn't hit on the kid he took in and helped raise.*
He flicked the finger of one of the gloves. It was frustrating. The Bat was just so damned unreadable, but that was part of what made him who he was. It made him the hero who'd trained Dick Grayson, and had made Dick what *he* was.
Hell with it.
Chucking the gloves across the room, Dick decided to sleep on the mystery that was Batman. He should have changed into pajamas, but he didn't feel like getting up. He slid under the blanket and shut his eyes.
*Maybe I'll call him tomorrow,* Dick thought as he drifted off. *Or visit. When's the last time I was home, anyway? Aww, screw it! I'm tired!*
He yanked the covers over his head and pushed thought from his mind.
A dark figure watching from the window smiled slightly and with the swirl of a cape, he was gone.