ProTesting, Jason's POV

This place is so fu- uh, flipping screwed-up. I might as well get in the habit of not swearing in my head while I'm in the manor. Bruce never tolerated my language when I lived here – I got my mouth washed out a bunch of times before I learned to swallow the words.

I'm nineteen, not twelve, but he's still a hard-ass. (Is hard-ass a bad word? Could I say in front of him, to his face? No. Okay, maybe it is a bad word.) He's unbendable – just can't flap him. I admit the jab at his parents was bad taste, but nothing else would faze him.

Freakin' Batman.

But Cas moved in and then attacked me in the living room.

Never trust a girl, especially one that doesn't talk. She looked all sweet and small, like a pretty cat, and then when she offered to rub my shoulders, I was thrilled. Just to be touched again.

I could hire a girl to touch me – heck, I could hire a hooker if I wanted to. (If I went to Metropolis, gave a fake name, paid cash, and went underground so he could never get his hands on me.) But the family didn't touch me.

So hands on my shoulders, kneading so strong – it was delightful.

I couldn't enjoy though because then she attacked me.

I did not like that one bit, she just kept going, that bi – er, that chick.

She made me go to sleep, too. I would have to beat her to death, empty my guns into her for daring to attack the Red Hood, but when I woke, I was so sleepy and confused I just sat there.

It might have felt good, what she did to me. I was throbbing with life and energy and I just felt so much better, but she had no right.

Of course, then Bruce decided to pay attention to me. Oh, sure, ignore a guy when he's in your face, ready for a fight, but as soon as the guy has a moment of confusion, just step right in and be all Bruce.

I did not like him being close, feeling my forehead in that concerned way and insisting to know how I was feeling. If I closed my eyes at all while he was checking me, it was because I didn't want to stare boldly at him like an idiot. I certainly didn't need him fussing over me, but Cas had to tattle on me.

I'm not sure how she did it without talking, but suddenly he knew everything and then I was getting smacked like a little kid. He hadn't smacked me since I came back to life, but all the memories came flooding back as he swatted. Last time, I had been over his knee, snarling at him about not letting me go out on my own. It was right after then that I went to the warehouse to confront the Joker . . .

I expected him to throw me out after smacking me. Heck, I had been expecting to be banned from the property after taking the car for a spin yesterday. I should have just driven for the gates. The detour I had taken by the front door was not because I wanted him to see me or come stop me – no, it was because that side of the drive looked less muddy that the straight shot to the gates.

When he had charged out of the house, I had slowed the car, not because I cared if I ran him over or not. I slowed the car because I was near the stairs and a pebble from drive might spin out, hit the front door, and then smack back on the car. There was no reason to damage such a pretty car. I didn't care about Bruce's safety or feelings, or anything else about him.

But he didn't throw me out then or after the few smacks in the living room. Instead, he announced he was going to perform a battery of tests on me and then told me to get myself down to the cave.

I should have run then. But I was still overwhelmed from what Cas had done to me, so overwhelmed that I actually kissed her and thanked her before scurrying down to the cave. She must have slipped me drugs to have me following orders so quickly.

Bruce joined me a few minutes later. He tossed me a pair of exercise shorts. "Put those on. Just those."

There was a remark to be made about doing a strip dance for him or something just as crude, but I went to the shower area and changed, folding my clothes up in the military way he had trained me.

"Socks and running shoes on," he nodded to the table by the medical bay. He was already pulling out scary medical instruments and laying them beside beakers. Well, an average dummy would think they were scary. I found the whole procedure boring and – and some other word that meant boring but dumb at the same time. Where was Tim and all his big words when you needed him?

Oh, upstairs, probably eating that special cake that Alfred bought when a new person moved into the manor. I didn't get a cake when I came back. Stupid British bast – uh, dummy.

Bruce pulled on a pair of medical gloves with a snap. "Let's go."

"I don't need a physical," I crossed my arms over my bare chest, trying to look imposing and not cold. "I haven't been sick since the Pit, not that you would notice."

"Good, then this won't take long," he snagged my arm and pulled me to the scales.

I stood there while he checked my height, screwing with the bar so I came back 5'11½ instead of my actual 6 feet. My weight was 215, slightly lower than the 225 of muscle I usually sported.

He didn't comment but waved me to sit on a low stool.

I should have tackled him right then and there. I should have broken his nose and then stolen all the cool gear from the cave with the Batmobile. I was tough – I didn't need his help or his checking me over and I didn't want his care or love – gag! – or anything stupid like that. I just wanted –

"Ow!"

He had grabbed my left ear and turned my head to stick the tip of the flashlight-ear-thing in my ear. He looked for a second and then pulled away. He jotted something on a clipboard.

"What's that?"

"Just taking notes. Turn."

I decided a casual, cool boredom would be good. I would just hang out until he was finished prodding and poking me.

My resolve lasted until he started feeling around my neck. It should have been sore from what Cas did to me. It was sore! But I'm also – uh, not quite stoic, you know?

Oh, fine.

I'm ticklish. There, happy? The whole freakin' world can know that the great Red Hood, the Robin who died and was reborn, who can shoot a bulls-eye from over two hundred feet and can handle a swarm of thugs without breaking a sweat, yeah, he's ticklish.

Pain I can take. Agony I can bear. Torture I can stand. But light fingers whispering on my skin . . .

I pulled away from Bruce's hands as he pressed around my throat.

He gave a short laugh. "Nothing really does change. Still ticklish."

I would murder him tonight.

I made a movement to get off the stool.

"Sit still. Put your hands behind your head with your fingers interlocked. I want you to breathe calmly while I check your torso for injury or damage."

It took all my resolve to lift my arms up, baring my chest for torment. I laced my fingers, digging my fingertips into my hair, and I shut my eyes and braced myself.

"So dramatic," Bruce said. He felt my ribs, tapping in various places, and I gritted my teeth in effort to stay still. The tickling made the lines of my stomach jump, and even having the solids abs like I had didn't help much. He was so close – I could have delivered a hard kick and then run for safety.

"Remember, sensation is all in your mind," he scolded. "You have to fight past it, ignoring the feelings."

"I will kick you in the kneecap," I said between gritted teeth, "and we'll see if the sensation all is in your mind."

"All right, the Spanish Inquisition is over. Lower your arms."

He took my heartbeat with a very cold stethoscope, jammed one of those popsicle-stick things down my throat while I gagged, "Aaahh," and hit my knees while they bounced back.

"See? I'm healthy."

He hesitated. "Technically, a real physical involves a groin check and proctology exam."

"Over your dead body," I shot back. "I'm not dropping my shorts for you or anyone else in this dump."

He shrugged. "I've since you naked before."

"I was a kid then."

"It's not like I care what you look like –"

"Oh, I know you only have the hots for women, particularly those that look like Catwoman. I don't care. No doing."

"Fine, but if you have any problems, you're going to regret not telling me," he gave me that Look which meant business. The man was always on a freakin' power trip.

"Stand up and touch your toes. I want to see the alignment of your spine."

I did so, and he felt down my back that was still sore from Cas. My stomach kept doing that jumpy thing which I tried to ignore. It was almost as if my body wanted me to enjoy this, to like being taken care of, but that was the stupidest idea ever. It was cold in the cave and that's why my stomach was jumpy – end of story.

"Let's get you on the treadmill," Bruce pulled on my shoulder for me to stand up.

He started taping leads to my torso and arms, fixing a cuff on one arm that would take my blood pressure while I moved.

Okay, I'm admitting this here and nowhere else ever, but I don't mind being treated like an experiment. I might even kind of like it, but you'll never hear me admit that out loud. Not in a weird way like I want people to start modifying my body like in those horror movies. But as Robin, I had liked it when Bruce tracked my progress and measured my work. I grew up with druggie mom who never noticed if I was home or hungry or even alive. Bruce's close attention wasn't bad, exactly.

Bruce was very hands-on. At first I was worried when I became Robin. I assumed that any touching meant I would have to return the touching – I had been the streets long enough to know how it worked. But the first time I had tried to touch his wrist to show I was open (I needed a place to live and food to eat after all) he smacked me away with a command of "Pay attention."

I remembered the relief that swept over me when I realized he wasn't a pervert, wasn't a pedophile – he actually wanted me to live with him and be Robin because of me, not my body. The physical parts of our jobs were just natural – he maneuvered me through exercises, he patched me up from scrapes, he yanked me back with I was in danger, he even spanked me when I screwed up, just like a real –

No, I wasn't going there, wasn't going to feel anything in return for him. I could be an experiment. I could be tested, trained, molded, disciplined. But I couldn't be anyone's son.

"Warm up with a jog," Bruce motioned to the treadmill.

I went, careful not to break any wires.

The running proved harder than I was expecting. I sweated to keep pace with a running pace – jog nothing! – and he kept upping the speed.

The other members of the family came down, and they had eaten all the cake so they got smacked except for Cas who had brought me a piece. I guess she's not too bad – better than the assho- er, jerks that were Tim and Damian.

I was breathing hard when Bruce finally left me off the treadmill. Tim and Cas were going to patrol so they suited up though Tim could barely fit his fat stomach in his suit.

"I'll be fine," he assured Bruce as he and Cas fitted their masks on. "We're going to do more surveillance at the docks. That last Sionis shipment looked fishy. We'll keep an eye on the Narrows, too."

"Good," Bruce peeled the tape off my chest. "Mad Hatter got out of Arkham today. Pay him a visit, too."

Tim saluted and he and Cas left.

"Start doing push-ups," Bruce motioned to the floor.

Free of the wires, I went down and began lowering my torso up and down.

It wasn't so bad. Strength analysis was a joke really, because I could –

Bruce put a 45-pound metal disk on my back.

"Go down slow. Keep your body even and don't let the disk fall off."

The push-ups were harder now; my upper arms began to burn.

I did ten more, and he added another 30 pounds.

I could still move up and down, but it was hard.

Another ten, he added 30 more pounds.

With 105 pounds on my back, I was straining to keep my form as I dipped down and then – pain, pain, pain! – came back up.

Damian came over and I could see his shoes. "He's shaking, Father. You should punish him for bad form."

Demon Spawn was going to get it.

"He's fine," Bruce said. "Keep going, Jason. It's almost nine, Damian. Time for bed."

"Someone has to monitor the patrol."

"I'm listening to them, and Alfred will come down later. I want you to sleep and tomorrow you need to run laps to balance out all that sugar you ate."

"Yes, Father."

Damian left, and I paused mid-rise to watch him head towards the elevator.

Bruce put a foot on top of the weights and pushed down.

It felt like two hundred pounds on my back. I collapsed to the floor.

"Ah-ah," he lectured, "keep going. Up and down. I've seen you knock Killer Croc to the ground. Tap into your inner strength and ignore the pain."

Growling, I pushed up, slow and painfully. He kept a foot on me, helping to balance the weights but also leaning onto me so I could barely move.

"Form," he smacked me on the back of the head. "I saw your knees bend. Knees straight. What? Oh, hey, Red Robin, I can hear you. No, Jason's fine. He's just complaining. What's the situation at the docks?"

Bruce kept asking Tim questions over his ear piece as he half-stood on me, and I kept pushing up and down, my mouth making small whimpers that I couldn't swallow.

"How many men are there? . . . Only five? Well, if you can isolate a crate, crack it open. Don't fiddle with anything inside – Jason, keep going! I'm going to add more weight if you go any slower – just look inside. If you think it's something suspicious, take a picture with your mask and send it to me. . . . No, I trust your judgment. Batcave out."

Bruce turned his attention back to me. "You've only done a hundred by my count. I want a hundred more and I don't want any whining from you."

I nearly sobbed. My arms were all hot and acidy inside, and my chest hurt, too. But I kept going. If I slumped in the middle and hit my mouth hard, I hoped I would drip blood all over his stupid Batcave.

But in the pit of my stomach, warmth glowed. It felt so good to be the center of his attention, to have him drill me like he did years ago, to be under his eye and command while I performed.

It must something that Cas did to me. I didn't need Bruce's approval – not now, not ever.

By the time he let me stand, I had lost most of the feeling in my arms, and I stared at him blankly as my muscles trembled.

"Your strength needs improvement," he frowned. "You shouldn't be so shaky this soon. It will only make the stress assessment that much harder."

He led me to the Ball Pit Hell. He pulled a board out, flat in a foot-wide circle. Then he brought out a hard Lacrosse ball.

Oh my . . . all the swearing words in the world! I had blocked out the nightmare that was stress assessment. It meant putting the board on the Lacrosse ball and then I stood on top and had to balance. Once I got fairly stable, Bruce gave me a short stick in my right hand. In my open left hand, palm-up, he placed a china saucer and a teacup filled with tea.

"The balls are going to come at you," he said. "Don't fall off the board and don't spill the tea. If you do, we'll repeat the process until you go two minutes," he held up a stopwatch, "without being hit by a ball or spilling the tea."

The cup was clattering on the saucer as I tried to steady my outstretched arm. "Okay, B. I'm ready."

The balls started flying. They hit me, not too hard, but I fought to keep my balance as they attacked from all angles. I could hit a few of them, but drops of tea landed on the floor. I heard Bruce's low noise of disapproval and then the click of his stopwatch as he reset the clock.

My legs felt like jelly as I balanced on the board. My arms screamed in pain at the strain of keeping still and swinging against balls that I couldn't see before they came.

"Concentrate," Bruce barked. "This job takes calmness and a steady mind and hand. You've seen me crawl under a beam and hang there while gathering intel. You have to let your mind guide you, not your body or your pain."

I would shove this teacup down his throat.

Two balls hit me, and the stopwatch started over.

I always thought Bruce was a little of a sadist, but I knew he was the absolute devil himself when he flipped a switch and the floor of the Ball Pit Hell started tilting.

I lost my balance and fell off. I caught myself and stumbled on my feet, but the cup fell and broke.

"That was part of my mother's china set," Bruce strode onto the moving floor to survey the damage. He swatted me across the backside. "Pick up the pieces and I'll get another one. You break that one, and I'll whack you with a sparring staff while you balance."

I wanted to scream. Why would he use his mother's good china for this activity? But this was supposed to be a stress test so I choked down my rage and nodded.

Between balancing on the tilting floor and keeping the tea from spilling out of the precious china, I couldn't hit more than every other ball.

"You're not concentrating," Bruce yelled at me. "You have to reach that place of zen, that pocket where you become poetry in motion, your movements gliding like water with a flow, a perfection of kinetics. Stop getting hit!"

The floor started shaking in short jerks, and I lost my balance again. But this time I lunged out to grab the cup and saucer, falling to my knees but saving the china.

Looking back, I caught a quick smile of approval on Bruce's face, but it disappeared as he said, "Fill the cup back up. You can't react to any new challenges without losing control so we'll keep working."

An hour later, he finally called it quits. I hadn't gone two perfect minutes, but I couldn't hold the saucer and cup up anymore. We had been working for nearly four hours in the cave, and as he had me sit by the computer, he split into two under my blank gaze.

"Wake up," he ordered.

I blinked, and he merged back into one disgruntled Bruce.

"So far, you've been barely adequate at endurance and strength and abysmal at stress. This is the psychological part of the review, and if you fail this, I'm going to rethink letting you live on your own."

I nodded. I wanted to answer, "Screw you," but not say screw, but words were not working.

Bruce put the piece of cake in front of me. "You see this?"

I had only been allowed water, and I was so hungry that I could barely keep myself from lurching for it. I nodded again.

"You pass this and you'll get this cake. Otherwise, I'm eating in front of you while you do more push-ups."

It was so cruel I felt my eyes prickle. I was doing all I could to stay sitting up straight, but he wouldn't give me an inch of leeway. At that moment, I would have given anything for a hug.

"I'm going to say words and you answer the first thing that comes into your mind. Quick answers, Jason. No dillydallying."

He let me gulp down water and then he started, "Gotham."

"Crime," I replied.

"Gun."

"Weapon."

He was scribbling down on the clipboard at each answer, but I didn't care. I wanted that cake or a hug – nothing else mattered.

"Joker."

"Death."

"Stick."

"Beating," the answers came off my tongue without pause. I was too tired to care if I was answering correctly, partly because I had no idea what the right answers were.

"Water."

"Thirst."

"Anger."

"Right."

"Girls."

"Sex."

He whacked me on the arm.

"Sorry."

"Straighten up. I'm not tolerating sloppiness in this house or this cave. Phone."

"Talk."

"Batcave."

"Home."

He paused for a second but went on, "Plane."

"Flying."

"Sky."

"Moon."

"League."

"Rape."

He flinched at this, but I kept staring at the cake. I didn't ever let myself think about those months with the League of Assassins after they dumped me in the Pit.

"Uh, chair."

"Sit."

"Run."

"Escape."

"Fight."

"Live."

"Batman."

"Dad."

I don't know where the last one came from – it rolled off my tongue before I could stop myself. I was getting dangerous close to tears. He had worn away at me, bit by bit, and it hurt and I hurt and I didn't want to play anymore.

"Just a few more. Keep breathing. You're doing real well, Jay-Lad."

A tear rolled down my face at the old nickname. I used to scoff at it, but it was mine. I had shared the Robin mantle, but Jay-Lad was mine and mine alone.

"Family."

I shook my head as two more tears followed. I couldn't answer, not like that, not while I was on the outside.

"Family," he repeated.

A low noise of pain came from my throat. It was over. I had failed.

I started crying for real.

"Shh," Bruce put a hand on my shaking cold hands. "Listen to me. I'm going to prick your finger to draw blood, and then I'm going to let you eat this cake. You're going to pee in a cup for the drug test, and I'm going to let you have a protein bar. Then you're going to sleep. And when you wake up, I'm going to be here. The whole family's going to be here. We aren't going anywhere. And I'm not letting anyone take you from me, not ever again."

I couldn't look at him – it hurt worse than the death beating I had taken in the warehouse.

He took my hand, but I barely felt the sudden prick of the needle or his squeezing my finger to get the blood out. The cake should have tasted delicious, but I couldn't really taste it as I gulped it down.

I turned against the wall to pee into the cup while Bruce contacted Tim again. I couldn't really hear what was happening, and I didn't care.

I handed him the cup and held the protein bar in its wrapper while I bit and chewed repeatedly. He had me stand in the shower area while he turned the hose on me and warm water sprayed over my weary body. I leaned against the wall, worn and finished.

I came awake a little when he rubbed a towel over me. He lifted my arms to rub down my torso, and I let them fall on his shoulders, leaning against him for support. He toweled the back of my head, rubbing my hair, and I laid my head on his chest, hearing the thud of his heart.

"You did really well tonight," he said. "You took everything I threw at you. I don't know why you have to fight me so much the rest of the time, Jay-Lad. You are an impressive warrior and valuable member of this team."

I didn't respond. I didn't know why I kept fighting against him, especially when I wanted him to approve of me, but it was too hard to reason right then.

He held me close for a second, and then he helped me stepped out of the soaking shorts and into flannel pajamas that had been steaming over a towel warmer. The heat surrounded me, and I gave a tired, loopy smile. I could barely keep my eyes open as he steered me to a cot in the medical area.

He had me lie down and he covered me up, the pressure of the cot and covers pressing the warm pajamas into my skin. I had never felt better. Inside my rage had died, and I just existed in quiet exhaustion.

He brushed my hair back from my forehead with firm fingers. I closed my eyes with a sigh.

Bruce was talking and I tried to listen, but I couldn't hear anymore . . . as I slipped down . . . quiet and dark . . .

AN: Next chapter in Bruce's POV