Dick grins at that and puts up his fist for a little fist-bump. "I'm up for it."
Don't leave him hanging, Blake.
Except when their knuckles touch, he's going to be treated to a little vision.
It's a large training room, with punching bags, several weight machines, and even some gymnastics rings hanging from the tall ceiling.
A small figure is easily swinging in smooth wheels on those rings - clearly Dick, just maybe a bit younger, but not by much. A year or two, at most. He flips off the rings a couple of times before catching them on his descent, but there's something tense in the way he moves. The way he mutters to himself in a barely audible grumble.
He flips off, flying high and nearly touching the ceiling with his feet, and lands on a stand, but it's slightly off and his arms wheel as he loses his balance. He smoothly transitions into several backflips to keep from hurting himself, eventually slowing and landing on his feet, back smacking a bit too harshly against the wall. Annoyed, the kid turns and slams his fist into the offending wall, leaving a little crater behind.
Scowling at it and brushing the plaster and cement off his calloused knuckles, the takes a seat with a towel over his shoulders, calmly sipping some water, when the door opens, Alfred standing there, stoic as ever, clearing his throat.
"Master Bruce wishes to see you."
Dick stares for a moment, clearly unimpressed at the interruption, but doesn't argue, just dropping the towel and bottle to the bench he'd been sitting on, following the butler through the manor. While the kid clearly can keep a poker face, there's something tense and resigned there, as if he's expecting a lecture.
When Alfred opens the door to the back gardens and, more specifically, the basketball court, Dick's greeted with a basketball nearly smacking him in the chest.
"What's this?" he asks, catching the ball and staring up at Bruce with some mild confusion. The man himself is dressed to work out, smirking down at the short kid.
"Training," he answers, hands braced on his hips. "Hand-eye coordination."
They stare at each other in silence for a moment, Bruce waiting patiently, Dick assessing the situation. Then he smirks, cocking his head to one side.
"One-on-one?"
Bruce's own smile grows a fraction. "If you think you can handle it."
Whatever tension Dick had been carrying, whatever wariness and apprehension, just melts away immediately and the kid darts forward, dribbling the ball and cackling as he weaves around the bigger figure with ease, Alfred himself smiling from the doorway.
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Don't leave him hanging, Blake.
Except when their knuckles touch, he's going to be treated to a little vision.
It's a large training room, with punching bags, several weight machines, and even some gymnastics rings hanging from the tall ceiling.
A small figure is easily swinging in smooth wheels on those rings - clearly Dick, just maybe a bit younger, but not by much. A year or two, at most. He flips off the rings a couple of times before catching them on his descent, but there's something tense in the way he moves. The way he mutters to himself in a barely audible grumble.
He flips off, flying high and nearly touching the ceiling with his feet, and lands on a stand, but it's slightly off and his arms wheel as he loses his balance. He smoothly transitions into several backflips to keep from hurting himself, eventually slowing and landing on his feet, back smacking a bit too harshly against the wall. Annoyed, the kid turns and slams his fist into the offending wall, leaving a little crater behind.
Scowling at it and brushing the plaster and cement off his calloused knuckles, the takes a seat with a towel over his shoulders, calmly sipping some water, when the door opens, Alfred standing there, stoic as ever, clearing his throat.
"Master Bruce wishes to see you."
Dick stares for a moment, clearly unimpressed at the interruption, but doesn't argue, just dropping the towel and bottle to the bench he'd been sitting on, following the butler through the manor. While the kid clearly can keep a poker face, there's something tense and resigned there, as if he's expecting a lecture.
When Alfred opens the door to the back gardens and, more specifically, the basketball court, Dick's greeted with a basketball nearly smacking him in the chest.
"What's this?" he asks, catching the ball and staring up at Bruce with some mild confusion. The man himself is dressed to work out, smirking down at the short kid.
"Training," he answers, hands braced on his hips. "Hand-eye coordination."
They stare at each other in silence for a moment, Bruce waiting patiently, Dick assessing the situation. Then he smirks, cocking his head to one side.
"One-on-one?"
Bruce's own smile grows a fraction. "If you think you can handle it."
Whatever tension Dick had been carrying, whatever wariness and apprehension, just melts away immediately and the kid darts forward, dribbling the ball and cackling as he weaves around the bigger figure with ease, Alfred himself smiling from the doorway.