A/N: Hey, guys. :) Sorry it's been so long. Hopefully, the Batman and Robin fluff will make up for it. Enjoy!

...

Dick began to feel weird about ten minutes after they left the banquet.

The sad thing was, the night had been okay so far. The charity ball was something of a snoozer, granted, but the DJ really went above and beyond with his song choices. Everyone was too sophisticated to dance, of course. And no one really appreciated like Dick did the subtle but complimentary deucing of Kenny G. and Ray Charles. But that wasn't very much in way of entertainment, and after an hour or so of torturous boredom and scouring a vegan buffet (which was in honor of the fundraiser's efforts towards animal rights activism) for anything remotely yummy, Dick finally ran into some other kids his age. Faster than he could sneeze, they spirited him away to a well-lit janitor's closet where they had been hiding from the banquet's gloomy procession of events. The girl had been a bit snobbish, and the two guys weren't much in way of conversation, but they shared their popcorn shrimp with him and the night overall had turned out much better than expected.

But then he'd heard Bruce calling for him and had dashed out of the closet with a hurried goodbye. However, he accidentally ran into a caterer, who was holding a tray of what looked like thimble-sized bowls of Jello pudding. Dick looked up to discover he'd knocked some over, apologized profusely, then paid the man a huge tip and slurped down a few cups to show his appreciation. Unfortunately, the caterer just snubbed him with a filthy glare, and then strode off without a second's premonition.

Presently, the heat was spilling out from under the dashboard of the Jaguire, but felt as if it were directly on his neck. The streetlights were hardly bright against the evening sky but seemed to be swollen and blinding. The drone of the wheels against the road was muffled by the odd pressure in his ears that he couldn't seem to rid himself of no matter how aggressively he yawned. Dick kept his eyes pressed firmly in his hands.

He didn't say anything at first, hoping it was just a passing spell. And after a moment or two, he started to feel normal again. Bwut he could feel Bruce's eyes glance his way just the same,

"We spent too much time at the banquet," his deep voice informed, "Another hour of patrol tonight should make up for it."

Robin fought hard not to wince. In truth, he'd rather be in bed with a cool pillow on his face and his headphones in. The last thing he wanted to do was spend all night leaping off of rooftops and taking blows to the ribs. But, he couldn't let Bruce know that. So he mustered up a measure of his typical enthusiasm and smiled,

"Sounds great! More time to bust some badguys."

It must have been a testament to Batman's training that Dick managed to conceal the waver in his voice almost completely.

But still, nothing gets past the Dark Knight.

"Something wrong?" Bruce asked with casual indifference, but Dick could feel eyes boring into the side of his head. He pretended to be startled, and looked at Bruce quizzically,

"Nah, nope, feel fine," he replied.

"You're sure?" Bruce continued as he rotated the wheel clockwise onto the next street, "Nothing you're keeping from me?"

"Just burned out, I guess," Dick shrugged. Bruce glanced at him askance (which for him just meant a slight raise of his eyebrows),

"Burned out?" he said, "You don't get burned out."

Dick felt anger, sudden and white and hot, bloom inside his chest. His fingers dug into the leather armrest. Yeah, why should he ever get burned out? He was only a 110 pound thirteen year old with full-time academic responsibilities, intense cardio fitness training he needed to participate in every day, a whole team of hormonal, super-powered sidekicks he had to work twice as hard as just to keep up with, and three hours of sleep every night to do it all on. No way he could ever get burned out!

Of course, he didn't. But, why should Bruce be so quick to assume that?

"No, never," he snapped, surprising even himself with the venom in his tone, "I'm the Boy Wonder, aren't I?"

There was a moment of deep silence. Dick felt the fury draining into his stomach, morphing into a cold shame. What was his problem? Bruce hadn't done anything.

"Don't snap at me," Bruce said calmly, evenly, the gravel in his tone reduced just the smallest bit to allow for an unexpected warmth. Dick breathed out through his nose, trying to release some of the weird tension in his muscles. Man, his head hurt. He felt like a jerk.

"Sorry," he muttered, frustration still straining his voice. Bruce nodded,

"Maybe, you should stay in tonight. Get some rest," he suggested. Dick shook his head adamantly. He refused to let his sudden bad mood and a bit of a headache turn him into a complete moocher,

"No, I'm fine," he insisted, then forced a small laugh, "Just my time of the month, I guess."

Bruce chuckled deeply and turned to him with a smirk,

"We don't need to have that talk again, do we Dick?"

Dick waved his arms dramatically,

"Oh, no. Please, God, no."

"It wasn't that bad," Bruce said. Dick looked at him, incredulous,

"You used batarangs!" he exclaimed. Bruce grimaced a slight bit,

"They were on handy." Dick scoffed,

"They're always on handy."

"It was my first time," Bruce grumbled quietly. Dick shook his head,

"Never again."

They were silent for a while, the sounds of traffic and the gentle squeak of the windshield wipers starting to calm Dick's frayed nerves. He absentmindedly wondered when it had started to rain. The quiet was broken when Bruce reached forward and turned on the radio. The built in police scanner, which looked like any other fancy car's digital playlist, offered them secret access to officially inaccessible radio frequencies. Dick had been a bit appalled at the songs Bruce had chosen as covers for the different frequencies. Classic indie rock music and the best pop hits…from the 70s.

"Bruce," he'd said, eyeing the playlist in wonder, "You do realize you're supposed to be Bruce Wayne, a rich, trendy bachelor, don't you?"

Bruce had narrowed his eyes at Dick somewhat irritably,

"Yes, Dick," he'd answered, "I think I know that. I have been so for over thirty years, after all," he'd looked down his nose at Dick, "That's longer than you've been alive."

After that, Dick didn't bother him about it again.

An urgent, female voice sounded through their speakers, muffled by static,

"All units to the West Sector. Repeat, all units to the West Sector. Bank robbery on first and seven. That is, first and seven. Ten known suspects still inside. No visible hostages. Repeat, all units-"

"No hostages?" Dick said, frowning, "The bank on first and seven, that's the Gotham City Bank. How could there be no hostages," he looked over at Bruce, "There's always people there."

Bruce looked grim,

"I don't know. But, we're going to find out."

…

The thing no one ever tells you about being a superhero is how extremely uncomfortable the suits actually are. Picture the way a thong might feel, then picture it made of spandex. Now, picture that, all over your body.

For whatever reason, Dick had decided not to wear his suit underneath his clothes that night. Partly, because he just enjoyed a respite every once in a while. Partly, because he had been struggling so much with figuring out how to tie a bow tie on YouTube, he hadn't had time to put it on. You'd think that being a part of high class society for five years running, attending white collar events anywhere from two to three times a month, he would know how to dress the part by now. But no, he still needed the good ole' internet to walk him through it, hand in hand.

The point is, that if you're not prudent enough to prepare beforehand and wear your suit, you have to pack it. And not everyone can be Superman. Not everyone can walk into a phone booth, spin around a few times and be ready to go save the world. Then again, not everyone has super speed. So, if you don't have super speed, and you don't have any phone booths on hand, and your car is so ridiculously low-roofed that trying to dress in the back-seat would be like wrestling a python into a shoebox, then you have to find the nearest place. And being picky wasn't an option.

The bathroom of a gas station, for instance, was a pretty good start. But, only if the cashier was snoozing on the job. This one was. Actually, he was so convincingly knocked out that Dick had to make sure he was breathing before his conscience would let him move on.

Currently, he was finishing with fitting his arms into the red sleeves of his Robin suit in the one bathroom. As gas station restrooms go, it was just a solitary toilet, a sink and an empty soap cartridge that appeared to be falling off the wall. He listened to the incessant tap-tap-tap of several moths harassing the ceiling light, and the accompanying tap-tap-tap of the leaky faucet as he got one hand all the way through, and started on the next.

He felt sluggish, hot. His left eye throbbed from a cluster of pain behind it, and no matter how hard he dug his knuckles in, or massaged his temples, it remained. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He didn't feel sick, but he just didn't feel…right. Bruce was in the girls' bathroom next to him. He would be done soon, and would surely send Robin home if he didn't finish up and pull himself together.

He shook his head to try and clear it.

In retrospect, this probably wasn't a very good idea.

A brilliant eruption of agony and light in his vision caused him to stagger. He gasped and shot his hand forward, his eyes blurred by spots of red, his heart hammering against his ribs. He clasped onto what must have been the edge of the sink, and clung to it as he felt his knees buckle beneath him. It was the only thing keeping him standing. He shut his eyes and struggled not to faint.

And then, suddenly, it was gone.

He breathed. He blinked. He breathed some more.

"Wha…?" his fingers climbed gingerly to the side of his head, and touched it gently. He stared into the grimy mirror. His shirt was only half on, his mask was hanging off of one eye.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the door began to rap loudly.

"Robin?" Batman called, his voice urgent, "They found the hostages, we have to move. Now!"

Robin shut his eyes, and sighed to calm himself. This was it. If there were hostages in trouble, there was no way he was going home.

You'll only make things worse. A voice in the back of his head informed him. He kindly told it to shut up. He stood straight, and repositioned his mask,

"Coming!"

…..

They stood next to the Gotham City bank on the roof of the building next to it. Light spilled from the numerous windows of the bank onto the streets. The flashing sirens of the police cars expounded the bright display of color in the dark, city scape. Batman was staring through his set of binoculars to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside the building. Robin was busy trying not the throw up. The lights, the height, the cold against his skin, it all built upon a growing nausea in his gut that refused to go away no matter how hard he willed it. He was fighting an inner battle. Should he tell Batman that he was sick? Should he risk damaging their operation, or leaving Batman alone here to deal with what looked like thirty vulnerable hostages and fifteen armed gunmen. Normally, the decision wouldn't have been so hard. But something was wrong with Robin. His mind wasn't working right. He felt stubborn, foggy, unfocused.

"You alright?" Batman said out of nowhere. Robin looked at him,

"Yeah, why?"

"You're shaking," Batman said, still looking through the binoculars. Robin swallowed. He turned away,

"It's cold up here," he explained.

Batman said nothing else. Robin dreaded a lecture, but it never came.

"Come on," Batman said, folding the binoculars and sticking them back in his tool belt. He pulled out his grappler instead, "We have to get inside."

Robin nodded, pulled out his own grappler, and stood. He bit back the wave of dizziness that followed.

"Let's go. Aim for the ventilation shaft," Batman said seriously, then raised his grapple and shot it out to the bank. Robin did the same. He peered through the rain, squinting hard through the blurry confusion of darkness and shapeless lights and the incessant THUMP THUMP THUMP in his head. He found what he thought looked like a ventilation shaft on the side of the building, and fired his grappler. Batman said nothing, so his aim must have been true. He sighed with a bit of relief.

In one motion, Batman leaned back, then leapt off of the roof. Robin breathed in deep, shut his eyes, and followed him not a moment later.

His feet found the air quickly, but only after he managed to quell the swirling in his stomach.

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough.

Robin couldn't say what exactly it was that happened. One moment, he was swinging through the air, the rain pelting his face, the air rushing past his ears. It was all getting louder, it was all getting colder. Red dots filled his vision, a sudden explosion of pain in his ears.

He was falling.

"ROBIN!"

He tumbled through the air, this way and that. His teeth clenched, his eyes shut, his stomach climbing ever higher into his chest, he reached for his belt, his legs kicked, his head pounded.

THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP

His hands clasped around the spare grapple, his arm shot out in blind faith.

He fired. Something caught. He should have braced himself, he knew how to do that.

His shoulder popped clean out of place. He didn't let go.

There was pain, there was water, there was blood.

No. No blood.

But, there was a window.

CRASH

And, there was the floor.

Robin blacked out.

But, not before he heard the screams. And the gunfire.

...

TO BE CONTINUED...