The "Super-Asterous-Teenagers-of-Jump-City"

Friday

It ended on a Friday. 

But then everything wrong with his life had happened on a  Friday. His entire family's murder. Friday. Getting beaten within an inch of death by Harvey Dent? Friday. Getting an 89% on the 4,000 word essay due for English Lit (that he only got one day to work on)? Okay, that one was on a Thursday, but his point still stands. Getting fired by Bruce? Friday. He'd get to that soon enough.But forgive him for having a pathological hate for the last day before the weekend. 

And as if to add to his humiliation, it was the Joker! He'd cracked a joke about it before they got on the case, that the weekend hadn't started until at least one super criminal broke out of Arkham.

He wasn't laughing now. Part of that was due to waves of agony ripping through the entire left side of his body, originating from his shoulder. Dick had been shot. 

Nothing new, except for it had been a 3 centimeters from his heart. And that he'd stopped breathing for 5.2 minutes. And of course, that he'd passed out and fallen three stories. 

The other part wasn't even the physical pain. It wasn't even the bullet that shattered his heart (that had missed of course, he wouldn't be on his way to Jump City if it had made it to its destination). It was Bruce. 

Apparently, Dick had been in a medically induced coma - courtesy of his favorite butler - for the past three days. When he'd finally opened his eyes, the first thing he'd seen was Bruce's ragged face. Not exactly the perfect way to greet the day. His eyes were bloodshot, face pale, and stubble kissed the man's jaw. But it was his expression that had made Dick wary. 

The thirteen year old had lived with Bruce for five years now, so he knew how to analyze his guardian's characteristically inexpressive faces. This one had been different. It looked worried and relieved and regretful all at the same time. *Was the opposite of regretful, gretful?* he'd thought, brushing off the look he'd seen as  his cocktail of sedatives inhibiting his deduction skills. 

He never found out what the opposite of regretful was, however, because as soon as his guardian-father-figure-mentor gave him some water, Bruce got serious. Well, more than usual. 

Bruce's voice started out quiet, just a murmur, and rose only just below normal speaking volume. 

"I almost lost you tonight."

"But, you didn't." He'd said, not knowing where his mentor could be going with that. "I was sloppy. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"No. It won't." Bruce's voice dropped back to murmur, but Dick understood what he said after that loud and clear. He was benching Robin. Permanently. 

Dick had shot up, yelled no, despite his pounding head begging him not to. Bruce had clearly meant for it to be a calm, logical talk. That wouldn't happen. It became a battle of wills, never before tested, both screaming at the top of their lungs to get their point across.

But Dick refused to let Bruce win the fight. He'd always stood down, been a good little soldier - with the exception of the Cadmus incident -, but this was too far. Robin didn't belong to Bruce! It didn't even belong to Dick! It was his mother's name for him, one Bruce had no right stripping from him. If he took it to the grave with him, so be it. He would still be his mother's Little Robin. Her Putin Prihor. It was a connection to his  past.