Chapter 7 - Training in the Batcave
The best thing about training with Bruce (other than just getting to train with Bruce which is the coolest thing ever because he's Batman) is the fact I get use everything I learned in the circus from my parents and the troupe. I might be awkward at school and not good at staying out of trouble and Alfred might hate me, but get me up in the air on a swinging rope and I'm free.
"You see," Bruce began turned on the lights, "I think it's important for – Dick?"
But I was already climbing up the handrails to the rope hanging over the Batcave, glad to leave the ground for awhile.
"Dick, I wanted you to stretch out first," Bruce lectured underneath me. "You need to start by getting yourself ready before you jump into –"
I leapt from the top platform and swung out on the rope. It felt so incredibly wonderful – just me in the air, almost flying. I soared across the top of the Batcave and grabbed onto another rope, daring gravity to pull me down as I flew.
When I soaring on the ropes, I can't think of any of my problems. Everything else fades away and I don't care about school or Bruce scolding or Gotham's villains. While I'm in the air, I'm free forever.
But of course I couldn't stay up there forever. All too soon, Bruce called me down. I slid down the ropes and jumped the last ten feet to land flatly on my feet.
"Stop showing off," Bruce said the moment I landed.
I wanted to retort that I wasn't showing off and how could I show off when only he was there, but I just replied,
"Yes, sir."
Bruce gave me a side glance, almost surprised by my answer. "Well, anyway, it's time to start our real training. We're going to run for a while. Then we're strength-training with stretching and then we'll end with hand to hand combat."
Not the most exciting of training (I keep hoping Bruce will teach me to drive the Batmobile but so far no luck); yet I said nothing as I got on one of the two treadmills. Running on the street isn't so bad, but running on a treadmill is pretty boring. Bruce has a flat-screen TV hanging in front of the machines, but he doesn't turn them on when I'm running with him. I think he watches the news for crimes around Gotham, but somehow he thinks I'm not old enough to see it. It's crazy – he's training me to fight crime but I can't see it yet.
Bruce sometimes makes so sense at all. On weekends when he lets me ride patrol with him, I get to stay up to one or even two o'clock in the morning. A few times, it got so late I fell asleep in the Batmobile and woke to find Batman carrying me out of the cave. But on school nights, he wants me in bed by nine o'clock. When we went to Arkham that time when the Joker saw me, Bruce wouldn't let me see any of the psychos or hear what they had done. Why take me on patrol if he wasn't going to let me do anything?
And if anything gets too exciting like hunting an insane killer torching abandon buildings and trying to burn homeless people, he locks me in the Batmobile and goes on foot by himself. But that's Bruce for you – he doesn't even like me to see PG-13 movies because they have "inappropriate content" which is a dumb way of saying he doesn't like sex or killing or swearing or anything else fun.
"I'm not a baby," I declared.
Bruce turned to look at me, never breaking his pace on the treadmill. "What?"
"I can see stuff," I huffed as I ran. "Stuff is rated PG-13 and I'm thirteen, so I should be able to see it."
"Concentrate on running," Bruce told me, that dismissive tone in his voice that meant he didn't care about how I felt.
As I kept running, I tried to figure out how I was going to get Alfred to like me. Bruce used to tell me that best way to make friends is to be polite and kind and not say mean stuff and try to think of things the other person is interested in. Maybe that works in kindergarten, but apparently I made friends with Barbara by ignoring teachers and not caring what other people said which she said was cool. Bruce would not like it if he knew, but I didn't plan to tell him anything. Serves him right for that awful sex talk.
But back to Alfred – I had to figure out a way to get on his good side. Maybe he did not like doing so much for us all the time. Bruce goes to work everyday and I'm at school, but I come home earlier than Bruce and maybe Alfred gets annoyed with me because I hang out and want to watch TV rather than do my homework. Did that mean I could never watch TV ever again? So unfair . . .
"What's wrong?" Bruce asked abruptly.
"Nothing," I sighed as I kept up my pace.
Bruce looked like he didn't believe me, but he kept running without saying anything. By the time I was pretty sweaty and tired, he stopped our machines and told me to get on the mat to start stretching.
Stretching sounds like an easy exercise, but the way Bruce does it, it's nothing short of torture. He makes me sit on the floor with my legs spread out and then he grabs my hands and begins to pull my chest flat to the ground. I find out I have muscles I didn't even think I owned, and he has me in all sorts of weird poses (laying out on my toes and my hands to strengthen my body, on one foot with my other foot and my arms out for balance, and then on my hands and knees breathing hard to expand my lungs). I hate stretching because I always hurt after it's over, feeling like pulled taffy, twisted every which way. He keeps saying I won't get too sore or stiff as long as we do this, but I don't believe him. I used to train with my parents for the circus, and I never felt as achy with them as I do with Bruce. I swear he does extra to just make sure I'm hurting by the end.
After a million hours of this, or thrity minutes by his estimate, we moved on to combat. Our shoes have to be off for this because we do it on the padded floor, and my feet felt odd as I stepped barefoot on the rubber.
I really like combat, especially the hand to hand stuff. It's the only time I'm allowed to hit, kick, or punch Bruce though I never get many hits in before he knocks me backwards on the rubber floor.
"Come on," Bruce urged, "try to kick me in the stomach. Remember to go fast and push with your heel."
I spun on one foot and tried to kick him in the gut with my right foot. But I wasn't chose enough and my toes barely grazed his shirt.
"Too far away," Bruce told me. "Come closer – always make sure you are close enough to land a hit. Even if you can't kick me, you can always knee me."
"But if I get too close, can't you grab me?" I asked. "Don't I want to leave enough room so you can't hurt me?"
"That's right – You wanted to be both offensive and defensive in a fight. Good boy," Bruce nodded.
I felt joy sweep over me – I love when Bruce approves of something I do. It doesn't happen very often so that makes it even better when he finally says it. But he kept going.
"Always keep light on your feet and never stay still. If you're bouncing on your feet, your opponent can't ever relax because he doesn't know what you're going to do next. If you walk up, stop, and then try to hit – he can see it coming because your arm or leg is the only thing moving. So keep moving. Try again."
I tried about twenty more times, and I finally got in what might have been a good shot but he jumped back before I could really cream him. We went on to punches and dodges, and I got flung to the mat a hundred times. It hurt every time I fell back, and once I got the wind knocked out of me. Bruce waited and put a hand on my back while I struggled for breath, but I didn't complain. I know I'm getting better, even if it takes me a long time to learn.
Next came wrestling on the floor which sounds fun but is really not! Bruce believes it's important for me to learn to fight back even once I'm down, so we start on the floor on our knees, and he pins me different ways and I have to try to escape.
This time it was especially not fun because Bruce made me lie flat on my back like I had just been knocked back to the ground.
"Okay," Bruce knelt beside me, "I just got you down, and I'm about to pound you some more. I don't have a gun, but I figure if I punch your face enough time I can kill you. You have to get away. Go."
Bruce clamped one iron hand on my chest and reared his fist back. I twisted to the side, managing to get on my stomach. But before I could push myself to my hands and knees to crawl away, Bruce shoved down on my back, and I slumped face-first onto the mat.
I tried to wiggle away, but Bruce grabbed my wrists in each hand and began to pulling my arms back.
"Ow, ow, ow!" I moaned as my arms were bent the wrong way. "That hurts."
"That's the idea," Bruce said above me. "Break free."
"I can't – I'm too sore," I protested.
"Oh, then I guess I'll just come back and kill you when you feel better," Bruce scoffed. "Of course you're going to be sore in a fight, and the bad guys won't care. Move, Dick!"
Snarling, I used the muscles from my stomach to help me buck my head up, hoping to catch his face. I didn't, but the surprise of it caused him to loosen his hold on my arms and I yanked out of his hold. I crawled a few feet before he grabbed me again.
This time he scooped his arms under my armpits and curved his arms back to hold the back of my neck. He lifted me up, my arms hanging out helplessly as his huge hands wrapped around my neck, my whole torso hung from his arms.
"No fair," I complained. "I can't even break free from this."
"Again, that's the idea," Bruce said. "Now fight back."
This went on forever. Every time I got free, he was on me in seconds, putting me in some tortuous new hold that made me wince.
"You ready to quit?" Bruce finally asked when he had me in the weirdest trap ever. He sat on the floor with one of his legs over mine, and his opposite arm holding me facedown with my torso crushed against his side and the floor. I don't know how I got there and I couldn't see anything but the back on his shirt, and he had my arms trapped under my body where I couldn't even rear up.
"No," I grunted, wiggling my rump back and forth trying to break free. I didn't want to quit training because the last thing Bruce has us do is the pole fighting. We each have a pole about three feet long (mine is slightest lighter than his), and we spar off at each other. It's almost like sword-fight, and it's my favorite part of the training. Bruce must know this because we do it last when I'm too tired and sore to enjoy it, the jerk!
"Then get free," Bruce told me.
I opened my mouth and tried to bite his side. I got mostly sweaty shirt in my mouth (yuck!), but I must have gotten some skin because he shouted and let go of me. I rolled free and lay on my back, exhausted.
"You can't bite," Bruce objected, rubbing his side once. "That's not fair."
"I have to play fair with the bad guys?" I looked at him, too tired to even smirk.
"You got me there," Bruce admitted. He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet so quickly I nearly toppled over again. "Steady there. Go get the poles, and then we'll call it a day."
We only sparred for about ten minutes. I was so tired I could barely lift my pole to parry his blows. He whacked me twice on the shoulder when I wasn't quick enough to block, and then he caught me across the knuckles. I dropped the pole as I held my sore hand, and Bruce announced,
"Okay, enough for today. But you're making progress. We haven't trained this long and hard ever. Over three hours."
I nodded dizzily and turned to stumble off the mat.
Alfred was standing at the edge, his face serious. "All right, let's see the damage."
He motioned me to follow him to the edge of the Batcave where all the medical equipment is stored. He sat me down on the low metal table and reached to take off my shirt. I pulled away before I remembered that I was supposed to be nice to him so he wouldn't hate me, but Alfred had already yanked my sweaty shirt off my body. The air felt cold to my sweat-soaked skin, but I couldn't do more than just sit there and stare blankly.
"He's already starting to bruise," Alfred sounded cross as he sat on the rolling stool and reached for the stethoscope.
"He'll be okay," Bruce called back as he put up the equipment.
"You bruise him too much, and the state will sent someone over here to check up on him," Alfred retorted. He put the earpieces in his ears and lifted the round metal part to my chest. "Deep breaths now."
The metal was cold, but I tried not to move as he listened to my heartbeat and my breathing. When he moved around the back, it tickled on my prickly skin, but I kept still and concentrated on drawing deep breaths. It wasn't even lunchtime, but I yawned as he pulled away and put the stethoscope up.
"You're sounding better," Alfred said grudgingly. "Your lungs will strengthen the more you train."
Bruce came over with a short towel draped over the back of his neck. "Well, will he survive?"
I thought that was supposed to be a joke, as close as Bruce comes to joking, but Alfred did not laugh.
"He'll be fine. I'm going to ice down the bruises and then hot water and cold to ease his soreness. Then it's upstairs for lunch and a nap."
"I'm not tired," I answered out of habit, though it was not true. My eyelids were so heavy, and I didn't think I could lift my arms. I had entered that numb, exhausted state where it's hard for me to think clearly, and I didn't want to do anything except lay back and sleep. I didn't hurt anymore, but my whole body felt both weightless and a million pounds heavy.
Alfred began pulling out medical icepacks and breaking them. He made me lay back on the table while he pressed the packs over anywhere he thought I would bruise. I stared up at the ceiling dreamily, wincing a little when the ice felt too cold or he hit a ticklish spot.
"Completely careless," Alfred tsked as he raised one of my arms to get good look at my side. "You're still healing from the Joker's cut, and he goes around bashing you into the ground."
"I heard that," Bruce called from some corner of the Batcave.
"Well, I said it loudly," Alfred replied crossly. He went back to fussing over me, "Utterly reckless – at this rate the authorities will be swarming all over Wayne Manor, looking for the clubs we use to beat boys black and blue."
I wished I could assure him that I was fine, that I didn't need him to care take of me. I could take a shower and take some ibuprofen like Bruce did, but I couldn't even form the words in my head I was so groggy.
Once he finished with the ice, he helped me walk over to the medical steel tub. I clumsily climbed in, and he turned on the warm water. Once it was full, he left me to soak for ten minutes while he went to help Bruce clean up.
"I can't believe you are still thinking about going on patrol tonight," Alfred's voice drifted over my way. "He's exhausted, worn-out."
"He'll take a nap and be awake for tonight," came Bruce's reply.
"He'll be too tired to be any good," Alfred said.
I began to hum quietly, making a single noise at the back of my mouth to block out any more noise. I didn't want to hear Alfred next say that I was useless on patrol anyway and Bruce was wasting his time with me. The humming lulled me to a near sleep in the warm water, and when I fell silent, I couldn't hear anyone talking.
I woke up a little when he drained the hot water and refilled it with cold, but he wouldn't listen to my objections.
"I know what's best for you," Alfred told me, turning off the faucets. "This way you won't hurt too much later."
"I hurt now," I moaned as I leaned against the back of the tub, wishing I could jump out.
"Just try to relax."
That was easy for him to say – he wasn't up to his shoulders in cold water. It wasn't as cold as the ice, but it felt awful after the warm water. But I said nothing, reminding myself not to bother Alfred.
When the water torture ended, I got dressed in new clothes and slowly made my way to the elevator to go upstairs. Alfred followed close behind him, ready to grab me if I fell. Bruce had continued working out – showing off that he could train all day without getting tired.
I wasn't hungry when we went up, but Alfred got me to sit down in the kitchen and started putting food in front of me. I remembered to chew before swallowing, and somehow the food began to disappear in front of me. Once I had eaten enough to please Alfred, I began the twenty-mile hike up to my bedroom.
I wasn't planning on napping – only babies take naps. I would sit or even lie down on my bed and look up at the ceiling for a while until I got my energy back.
I flopped down on my made bed and sunk my head into the pillow. I yawned so wide I thought my head would split in two. When I stopped, Alfred was coming towards the bed with a blanket in his hands.
"Not cold," I murmured, snuggle down onto the top of the comforter.
"Your hair is still wet," Alfred objected as he covered me up with the blanket. "You need to stay warm or you'll get sick. Your immune system is always lower after a hard workout."
My eyelids weighted a tom, but I managed to say, "Sorry for so much trouble."
"No more trouble than usual," Alfred replied as he pulled the edge of the blanket up to my chin. "If you ever stopped being trouble, I wouldn't know what to do with my free time."
If I hadn't been so tired, I probably would have started crying. It was bad enough him telling Bruce that he hated me, but now Alfred told me to my face that he hated me.
I closed my eyes and just focused on how tired I felt. As I faded away to the darkness, I felt someone pat my shoulder. It must have been Bruce, even though I didn't hear him come in. Alfred would never pat the shoulder of the boy he hated so much.
And then I gave into the darkness and fell nothing.
"You see," Bruce began turned on the lights, "I think it's important for – Dick?"
But I was already climbing up the handrails to the rope hanging over the Batcave, glad to leave the ground for awhile.
"Dick, I wanted you to stretch out first," Bruce lectured underneath me. "You need to start by getting yourself ready before you jump into –"
I leapt from the top platform and swung out on the rope. It felt so incredibly wonderful – just me in the air, almost flying. I soared across the top of the Batcave and grabbed onto another rope, daring gravity to pull me down as I flew.
When I soaring on the ropes, I can't think of any of my problems. Everything else fades away and I don't care about school or Bruce scolding or Gotham's villains. While I'm in the air, I'm free forever.
But of course I couldn't stay up there forever. All too soon, Bruce called me down. I slid down the ropes and jumped the last ten feet to land flatly on my feet.
"Stop showing off," Bruce said the moment I landed.
I wanted to retort that I wasn't showing off and how could I show off when only he was there, but I just replied,
"Yes, sir."
Bruce gave me a side glance, almost surprised by my answer. "Well, anyway, it's time to start our real training. We're going to run for a while. Then we're strength-training with stretching and then we'll end with hand to hand combat."
Not the most exciting of training (I keep hoping Bruce will teach me to drive the Batmobile but so far no luck); yet I said nothing as I got on one of the two treadmills. Running on the street isn't so bad, but running on a treadmill is pretty boring. Bruce has a flat-screen TV hanging in front of the machines, but he doesn't turn them on when I'm running with him. I think he watches the news for crimes around Gotham, but somehow he thinks I'm not old enough to see it. It's crazy – he's training me to fight crime but I can't see it yet.
Bruce sometimes makes so sense at all. On weekends when he lets me ride patrol with him, I get to stay up to one or even two o'clock in the morning. A few times, it got so late I fell asleep in the Batmobile and woke to find Batman carrying me out of the cave. But on school nights, he wants me in bed by nine o'clock. When we went to Arkham that time when the Joker saw me, Bruce wouldn't let me see any of the psychos or hear what they had done. Why take me on patrol if he wasn't going to let me do anything?
And if anything gets too exciting like hunting an insane killer torching abandon buildings and trying to burn homeless people, he locks me in the Batmobile and goes on foot by himself. But that's Bruce for you – he doesn't even like me to see PG-13 movies because they have "inappropriate content" which is a dumb way of saying he doesn't like sex or killing or swearing or anything else fun.
"I'm not a baby," I declared.
Bruce turned to look at me, never breaking his pace on the treadmill. "What?"
"I can see stuff," I huffed as I ran. "Stuff is rated PG-13 and I'm thirteen, so I should be able to see it."
"Concentrate on running," Bruce told me, that dismissive tone in his voice that meant he didn't care about how I felt.
As I kept running, I tried to figure out how I was going to get Alfred to like me. Bruce used to tell me that best way to make friends is to be polite and kind and not say mean stuff and try to think of things the other person is interested in. Maybe that works in kindergarten, but apparently I made friends with Barbara by ignoring teachers and not caring what other people said which she said was cool. Bruce would not like it if he knew, but I didn't plan to tell him anything. Serves him right for that awful sex talk.
But back to Alfred – I had to figure out a way to get on his good side. Maybe he did not like doing so much for us all the time. Bruce goes to work everyday and I'm at school, but I come home earlier than Bruce and maybe Alfred gets annoyed with me because I hang out and want to watch TV rather than do my homework. Did that mean I could never watch TV ever again? So unfair . . .
"What's wrong?" Bruce asked abruptly.
"Nothing," I sighed as I kept up my pace.
Bruce looked like he didn't believe me, but he kept running without saying anything. By the time I was pretty sweaty and tired, he stopped our machines and told me to get on the mat to start stretching.
Stretching sounds like an easy exercise, but the way Bruce does it, it's nothing short of torture. He makes me sit on the floor with my legs spread out and then he grabs my hands and begins to pull my chest flat to the ground. I find out I have muscles I didn't even think I owned, and he has me in all sorts of weird poses (laying out on my toes and my hands to strengthen my body, on one foot with my other foot and my arms out for balance, and then on my hands and knees breathing hard to expand my lungs). I hate stretching because I always hurt after it's over, feeling like pulled taffy, twisted every which way. He keeps saying I won't get too sore or stiff as long as we do this, but I don't believe him. I used to train with my parents for the circus, and I never felt as achy with them as I do with Bruce. I swear he does extra to just make sure I'm hurting by the end.
After a million hours of this, or thrity minutes by his estimate, we moved on to combat. Our shoes have to be off for this because we do it on the padded floor, and my feet felt odd as I stepped barefoot on the rubber.
I really like combat, especially the hand to hand stuff. It's the only time I'm allowed to hit, kick, or punch Bruce though I never get many hits in before he knocks me backwards on the rubber floor.
"Come on," Bruce urged, "try to kick me in the stomach. Remember to go fast and push with your heel."
I spun on one foot and tried to kick him in the gut with my right foot. But I wasn't chose enough and my toes barely grazed his shirt.
"Too far away," Bruce told me. "Come closer – always make sure you are close enough to land a hit. Even if you can't kick me, you can always knee me."
"But if I get too close, can't you grab me?" I asked. "Don't I want to leave enough room so you can't hurt me?"
"That's right – You wanted to be both offensive and defensive in a fight. Good boy," Bruce nodded.
I felt joy sweep over me – I love when Bruce approves of something I do. It doesn't happen very often so that makes it even better when he finally says it. But he kept going.
"Always keep light on your feet and never stay still. If you're bouncing on your feet, your opponent can't ever relax because he doesn't know what you're going to do next. If you walk up, stop, and then try to hit – he can see it coming because your arm or leg is the only thing moving. So keep moving. Try again."
I tried about twenty more times, and I finally got in what might have been a good shot but he jumped back before I could really cream him. We went on to punches and dodges, and I got flung to the mat a hundred times. It hurt every time I fell back, and once I got the wind knocked out of me. Bruce waited and put a hand on my back while I struggled for breath, but I didn't complain. I know I'm getting better, even if it takes me a long time to learn.
Next came wrestling on the floor which sounds fun but is really not! Bruce believes it's important for me to learn to fight back even once I'm down, so we start on the floor on our knees, and he pins me different ways and I have to try to escape.
This time it was especially not fun because Bruce made me lie flat on my back like I had just been knocked back to the ground.
"Okay," Bruce knelt beside me, "I just got you down, and I'm about to pound you some more. I don't have a gun, but I figure if I punch your face enough time I can kill you. You have to get away. Go."
Bruce clamped one iron hand on my chest and reared his fist back. I twisted to the side, managing to get on my stomach. But before I could push myself to my hands and knees to crawl away, Bruce shoved down on my back, and I slumped face-first onto the mat.
I tried to wiggle away, but Bruce grabbed my wrists in each hand and began to pulling my arms back.
"Ow, ow, ow!" I moaned as my arms were bent the wrong way. "That hurts."
"That's the idea," Bruce said above me. "Break free."
"I can't – I'm too sore," I protested.
"Oh, then I guess I'll just come back and kill you when you feel better," Bruce scoffed. "Of course you're going to be sore in a fight, and the bad guys won't care. Move, Dick!"
Snarling, I used the muscles from my stomach to help me buck my head up, hoping to catch his face. I didn't, but the surprise of it caused him to loosen his hold on my arms and I yanked out of his hold. I crawled a few feet before he grabbed me again.
This time he scooped his arms under my armpits and curved his arms back to hold the back of my neck. He lifted me up, my arms hanging out helplessly as his huge hands wrapped around my neck, my whole torso hung from his arms.
"No fair," I complained. "I can't even break free from this."
"Again, that's the idea," Bruce said. "Now fight back."
This went on forever. Every time I got free, he was on me in seconds, putting me in some tortuous new hold that made me wince.
"You ready to quit?" Bruce finally asked when he had me in the weirdest trap ever. He sat on the floor with one of his legs over mine, and his opposite arm holding me facedown with my torso crushed against his side and the floor. I don't know how I got there and I couldn't see anything but the back on his shirt, and he had my arms trapped under my body where I couldn't even rear up.
"No," I grunted, wiggling my rump back and forth trying to break free. I didn't want to quit training because the last thing Bruce has us do is the pole fighting. We each have a pole about three feet long (mine is slightest lighter than his), and we spar off at each other. It's almost like sword-fight, and it's my favorite part of the training. Bruce must know this because we do it last when I'm too tired and sore to enjoy it, the jerk!
"Then get free," Bruce told me.
I opened my mouth and tried to bite his side. I got mostly sweaty shirt in my mouth (yuck!), but I must have gotten some skin because he shouted and let go of me. I rolled free and lay on my back, exhausted.
"You can't bite," Bruce objected, rubbing his side once. "That's not fair."
"I have to play fair with the bad guys?" I looked at him, too tired to even smirk.
"You got me there," Bruce admitted. He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet so quickly I nearly toppled over again. "Steady there. Go get the poles, and then we'll call it a day."
We only sparred for about ten minutes. I was so tired I could barely lift my pole to parry his blows. He whacked me twice on the shoulder when I wasn't quick enough to block, and then he caught me across the knuckles. I dropped the pole as I held my sore hand, and Bruce announced,
"Okay, enough for today. But you're making progress. We haven't trained this long and hard ever. Over three hours."
I nodded dizzily and turned to stumble off the mat.
Alfred was standing at the edge, his face serious. "All right, let's see the damage."
He motioned me to follow him to the edge of the Batcave where all the medical equipment is stored. He sat me down on the low metal table and reached to take off my shirt. I pulled away before I remembered that I was supposed to be nice to him so he wouldn't hate me, but Alfred had already yanked my sweaty shirt off my body. The air felt cold to my sweat-soaked skin, but I couldn't do more than just sit there and stare blankly.
"He's already starting to bruise," Alfred sounded cross as he sat on the rolling stool and reached for the stethoscope.
"He'll be okay," Bruce called back as he put up the equipment.
"You bruise him too much, and the state will sent someone over here to check up on him," Alfred retorted. He put the earpieces in his ears and lifted the round metal part to my chest. "Deep breaths now."
The metal was cold, but I tried not to move as he listened to my heartbeat and my breathing. When he moved around the back, it tickled on my prickly skin, but I kept still and concentrated on drawing deep breaths. It wasn't even lunchtime, but I yawned as he pulled away and put the stethoscope up.
"You're sounding better," Alfred said grudgingly. "Your lungs will strengthen the more you train."
Bruce came over with a short towel draped over the back of his neck. "Well, will he survive?"
I thought that was supposed to be a joke, as close as Bruce comes to joking, but Alfred did not laugh.
"He'll be fine. I'm going to ice down the bruises and then hot water and cold to ease his soreness. Then it's upstairs for lunch and a nap."
"I'm not tired," I answered out of habit, though it was not true. My eyelids were so heavy, and I didn't think I could lift my arms. I had entered that numb, exhausted state where it's hard for me to think clearly, and I didn't want to do anything except lay back and sleep. I didn't hurt anymore, but my whole body felt both weightless and a million pounds heavy.
Alfred began pulling out medical icepacks and breaking them. He made me lay back on the table while he pressed the packs over anywhere he thought I would bruise. I stared up at the ceiling dreamily, wincing a little when the ice felt too cold or he hit a ticklish spot.
"Completely careless," Alfred tsked as he raised one of my arms to get good look at my side. "You're still healing from the Joker's cut, and he goes around bashing you into the ground."
"I heard that," Bruce called from some corner of the Batcave.
"Well, I said it loudly," Alfred replied crossly. He went back to fussing over me, "Utterly reckless – at this rate the authorities will be swarming all over Wayne Manor, looking for the clubs we use to beat boys black and blue."
I wished I could assure him that I was fine, that I didn't need him to care take of me. I could take a shower and take some ibuprofen like Bruce did, but I couldn't even form the words in my head I was so groggy.
Once he finished with the ice, he helped me walk over to the medical steel tub. I clumsily climbed in, and he turned on the warm water. Once it was full, he left me to soak for ten minutes while he went to help Bruce clean up.
"I can't believe you are still thinking about going on patrol tonight," Alfred's voice drifted over my way. "He's exhausted, worn-out."
"He'll take a nap and be awake for tonight," came Bruce's reply.
"He'll be too tired to be any good," Alfred said.
I began to hum quietly, making a single noise at the back of my mouth to block out any more noise. I didn't want to hear Alfred next say that I was useless on patrol anyway and Bruce was wasting his time with me. The humming lulled me to a near sleep in the warm water, and when I fell silent, I couldn't hear anyone talking.
I woke up a little when he drained the hot water and refilled it with cold, but he wouldn't listen to my objections.
"I know what's best for you," Alfred told me, turning off the faucets. "This way you won't hurt too much later."
"I hurt now," I moaned as I leaned against the back of the tub, wishing I could jump out.
"Just try to relax."
That was easy for him to say – he wasn't up to his shoulders in cold water. It wasn't as cold as the ice, but it felt awful after the warm water. But I said nothing, reminding myself not to bother Alfred.
When the water torture ended, I got dressed in new clothes and slowly made my way to the elevator to go upstairs. Alfred followed close behind him, ready to grab me if I fell. Bruce had continued working out – showing off that he could train all day without getting tired.
I wasn't hungry when we went up, but Alfred got me to sit down in the kitchen and started putting food in front of me. I remembered to chew before swallowing, and somehow the food began to disappear in front of me. Once I had eaten enough to please Alfred, I began the twenty-mile hike up to my bedroom.
I wasn't planning on napping – only babies take naps. I would sit or even lie down on my bed and look up at the ceiling for a while until I got my energy back.
I flopped down on my made bed and sunk my head into the pillow. I yawned so wide I thought my head would split in two. When I stopped, Alfred was coming towards the bed with a blanket in his hands.
"Not cold," I murmured, snuggle down onto the top of the comforter.
"Your hair is still wet," Alfred objected as he covered me up with the blanket. "You need to stay warm or you'll get sick. Your immune system is always lower after a hard workout."
My eyelids weighted a tom, but I managed to say, "Sorry for so much trouble."
"No more trouble than usual," Alfred replied as he pulled the edge of the blanket up to my chin. "If you ever stopped being trouble, I wouldn't know what to do with my free time."
If I hadn't been so tired, I probably would have started crying. It was bad enough him telling Bruce that he hated me, but now Alfred told me to my face that he hated me.
I closed my eyes and just focused on how tired I felt. As I faded away to the darkness, I felt someone pat my shoulder. It must have been Bruce, even though I didn't hear him come in. Alfred would never pat the shoulder of the boy he hated so much.
And then I gave into the darkness and fell nothing.