When other kids his age are playing with GI Joes and Matchbox cars, Dick Grayson is polishing Batarangs and sneaking his dad's cable launcher out into the yard to scale trees with.

When other kids his age struggle with long division, he pulls Bruce's old college textbooks down from a shelf and studies criminology with Alfred there to tell him what such and such big word means and supply cookies.

When other kids his age gossip about who gave who what note, Dick memorizes the face of every criminal in Gotham, their crimes, and any kind of telltales or symbols they could leave at a crime scene.

When other kids his age play hopscotch, he gets in a fight on purpose with Johnny Bemman.

Johnny is a stupid behemoth of a boy, and easily angered. All Dick has to throw at him is a sneer and well placed "You're momma is so fat..." and all of a sudden he's sitting in the mulch with a bloody lip. He makes sure to cry a lot, and within minutes Bruce is there outside the principal's office with a stern, angry set to his mouth.

When Bruce offers to teach him karate, so he can defend himself, it takes a monumental effort for nine-year-old Dick not to smile through the blood.

He excels at his lessons, and when he finally feels like he's ready, he quietly requests black and red cloth from Alfred and breaks out the Crayola markers. He has it all planned out in his head, but Alfred takes the scissors from his hands and offers to do it for him. He relents only because when Alfred actually turns on the sewing machine, it looks like it will eat him.

"You amaze me, Master Dick," Alfred murmurs to him with pins clamped in his teeth, "you'll stare at bloody bodies for hours and yet you're frightened of a sewing machine? You're just like Master Bruce..." He tries not to show how much he takes that as a compliment, but Alfred sees through him easily.

Of course, when he hides in the Batmobile the next night in his new costume and bursts into Bruce's third fight of the night, Bruce catches him by the collar almost immediately and tosses him gently back into the Batmobile while the thugs cry for mercy.

He's given a very long and winded lecture, and then he proudly presents his masterpiece- a fifteen page paper on why he should be allowed to be Bruce's sidekick.

That Bruce only looks at three pages before huffing and flinging it down in parental distress makes him grin.

"Why a robin?" Bruce finally asks. Here he shows his first signs of nervousness, and fidgets for a moment, tugging on the red "R" on his chest.

It's what my mom used to call me, up on the trapeze." Bruce's face softens minutely, and he holds on for one hopeful moment before Bruce sighs. Then he lets loose a squeal of delight, nearly dancing on the spot.

"YES!"

"Dick-"

"Can I get my own gear? Like a belt? Holy crow, can I get my own Batmobile?" Bruce slumps with a groan, and he resists the urge to cackle madly. He settles for a giggle instead.

He goes on like this for a few months, fighting crime with Bruce at night and buzzing through his classes fast enough to make his teachers get whiplash. He feels unstoppable on rooftops, but Bruce keeps him grounded in reality, with brutal training and bruises and emergency medical training. The first time he has to sew Bruce's stitches, and then his own, are both harrowing.

The Justice League is a far off thought until Bruce asks him if he wants to meet them. For a second he just stares, dumb with sleep deprivation.

"What?"

"The Justice League. There's a mission I think you'd be useful for." He nods thoughtfully, and then sneaks away to Google it.

Superman, Green Lantern, Flash, Martian Manhunter, Black Canary, Captain Atom, Aquaman, Wonder Woman, Green Arrow, Red Tornado…the list goes on and on and on, and his jaw keeps getting closer to the floor.

He confronts Bruce, so excited he's about to burst.

"Are you serious? You want me on a mission?" Bruce nods, amused, and he lets out an alarmingly dolphin like noise of serious fan fever and hurries off to clean his gear and put new Band-Aids on so he doesn't look like "a miscreant scruff", as Alfred always says.

At nine, he's kind of…ridiculously short. He looks like he's six, and craning his neck to gape up at Superman for the first time, he's only too aware of how tiny he is compared to the Man of Steel.

Superman slowly cocks an eyebrow down at him, and he squeaks and ducks behind Bruce, gathering the black cape around him like a shield. He hears a few giggles, and Bruce pries his cape out of Dick's fingers.

"Robin, introduce yourself." He's pushed forward, and he shyly twists his cape between his hands before nearly shouting,

"Hi, I'm Robin and I'm nine years old!" He juts his hand out at Superman, and Superman slowly takes his hand, shaking it very delicately.

"Nice to meet you, Robin." His grin rivals the Joker's at that moment, and Superman gives Bruce an amused look.

"You're sure you're ready for this, Robin?" His grin turns sly at that, and he bounces on the balls of his feet, his fingers at his belt.

"I was born ready."