Bat-nanigans

[skybluejeep]

Characters: Batman and his next Robin Stiles. CLOSED.
Date: After the Late October Teen Wolf Invasion
Location: Roof of Stiles' suite.
Situation: Stiles has finally been told that his father was kidnapped - and then saved from - a certain baddy. As a result, he has a very public panic attack on the network.
Warnings/Rating: Spoilers for Teen Wolf season 3A. Bat-stalking. Daddy angst.

***

Stiles has a feeling that this time, being at the turtle head wouldn't help. He's beginning to suspect he spends way too much time up there anyway, wallowing in the peaceful vibes. Was it possible to become addicted to the inner peace a giant turtle can bring?

Better than Klonopin. Which was what Stiles was rocking today. Three full tabs. His head felt a little floaty, but he kinda needed it, thanks. It kept his heart from turning his chest cavity into a drum circle.

He's sitting on the roof of his suite, having climbed up there free-style. (How do you think he got on Scott's roof all the time? He was a house-climbing expert by now.) He's reeling from the triple whammy of the last few days. Lydia. His dad. And Derek telling him about Scott's Alpha status.

But the thing that's haunting him is his dad. Kidnapped by the Darach. Nearly sacrificed in her (her? the Darach is a her?) insane lust for power and revenge. His dad. Who he worked so hard to keep safe, to keep out of the supernatural bullshit that plagued Beacon Hills. And he's honestly furious with Scott and Isaac for not telling him sooner. He can't stay angry, of course. Not with Scott, and not really with Isaac anymore, either. But tonight, he's turned off his computer, called out sick from work, and is hiding. Sure, he can't hide from werewolf senses...but he can certainly try to grab some alone time.

Comments

[skybluejeep]

Three days later.

Stiles makes his way to the address Batman gave him. It's getting colder out, so he's got on a pair of silk pants, since there's no such thing as sweatpants on the turtle. And a long-sleeved shirt. And his flannel, which he'll discard as the training session goes on.

The Metal sector is not a place where he's spent much time, since all his friends are in other places. So it's a tentative Stiles that peers inside the place. Apparently abandoned. So he steps inside, not sure what he'll find, but ready to face anything. Even the Batman.

[cowled]

Bruce is already waiting, and as soon as Stiles is through the door, it slams shut behind him. At least sixty percent of what he does is showmanship, sleight of hand. Parlour tricks. Things he's stolen from stages, magicians, cutpurses and criminals of a harder sort. Everything he learns is one more thing to add to his arsenal, whether it's slowing his heartbeat to the point he can pass as the recently deceased to the ability to tell poisons from one another by sight, taste, texture or smell.

He's standing, stock-still in the shadows along the far wall, all but invisible to even the closest scrutinies. He's curious, more than anything, how Stiles will react to the slam of the door.

[skybluejeep]

The boy goes stiff. Of course he does. But he's also spent so much of his time around Derek Hale, Peter Hale, and other various supernatural baddies that he doesn't flinch.

Instead, his eyes narrow, and he puts his back against the wall next to the door, his arms across his chest.

"Dude. Seriously? Cheap scares? Homie don't play that. You know I hang out with werewolves. Don't go there."

[cowled]

"Cheap scares are effective against the right opponents," Bruce says, stepping out into the light. He's in full kit, mostly because it's the easiest way to continue obscuring his identity, and mostly because he'll be patrolling afterwards. "Don't belittle them. Learn them. They can be your greatest weapon with the proper application of force."

[skybluejeep]

He frowns a bit, and shakes his head.

"Okay, no. And here's why; werewolves. Seriously, I'm always up against a bunch of huge, supernatural bastards who grow claws and too much hair."

He doesn't budge, staring down the Bat. This isn't training, it's a lecture, and he gets those enough from his dad. He was expecting to learn how to throw a punch or six, not this intellectual BS.

"Derek Hale alone loves nothing more than to freak me out, and he just grabs me and shoves me up against the wall. And he's on my side."

[cowled]

"You won't always be fighting werewolves," Bruce tells him flatly, his tone edging just slightly into displeased. "Each fight requires different tactics. Knowing all of the ones available to you are how you select the one necessary to win. How would you fight a larger opponent?"

[skybluejeep]

"Cheap tricks and nut shots?"

That displeased tone makes him worried, but not upset. He rubs his forehead, but doesn't back down.

"Seriously, come to Beacon Hills and tell me I won't always be fighting werewolves. Well...okay, fair enough, once I fought a giant fucking lizard."

[cowled]

"'Cheap tricks'," Bruce echoes. Stiles, honestly, you just made his point for him, and now he's leaving it to you to figure it out. He falls completely silent, arms folded, cape pooling at his feet like an oil slick. Every once in a while, he forgets what normal teenagers are like, and this is serving as... a reminder. Not an unpleasant one, necessarily. But a reminder, nevertheless.

Somewhere, he thinks Alfred is probably laughing at him.

[skybluejeep]

"...By cheap tricks I mean wolfsbane enemas."

But he's seeing his point, honestly, and he glances down at the floor.

"So you'd pull those cheap tricks on me? A kid who's here to learn from you? Come on, you already know I respect you, you know I'm a fan. Don't haze me. I'm here to do whatever you want."

[cowled]

"You are learning," he says firmly, his tone steady and absolute. "Every second you're here, you're learning something. It may be a hard truth, or one you knew and have since forgotten. It may be something unpleasant about yourself, or those you know. Even me. But you are learning." Bruce flicks his wrist, throws something at Stiles. A hood, the material is sheer and lets in no light.

"Put that on."

[skybluejeep]

He catches it automatically, in both hands, and holds it up to the limited light. Instead of putting it on he tries to figure out what it's made out of.

"...Really? Over my eyes? Which will mess up my peripheral vision? I worship you, Batman. But I have my limits."

[cowled]

"You aren't here to worship me. You're here to learn. Put it on." He folds his arms, utterly unimpressed. The hardest part of teaching anyone is making them realize that they are present to learn, and for many that means quelling their own instincts to rebel, lash out. Smart-talk. It's Stiles' defense mechanism, he's known that from the outset. Dick's is humour, light jibes. Jason's was anger. Tim's was knowledge, logic that he could reason out and hide behind in the same stroke of the brush.

Stephanie-- her mask was fearlessness.

Of them all, Cassandra, who knew no language better than she knew closed fists and scything kicks, was the only honest member of his family. Honest in all ways, Cassandra utterly lacks deception of the self, which is what he sees in Stiles now.

He says nothing further. He merely waits.

[skybluejeep]

Staring down Batman is like staring at the sun; eventually very bad for you, and causes scarring and eye strain.

With a sigh, he pulls the hood up and over his head. He was right, it does cut off his peripheral vision, and slightly muffles his hearing as well. Ugh. That he does not like.

But he spreads his hands in surrender, as if silently saying 'Okay, the thing's on, now what?'

[cowled]

His mouth quirks into an expression that, on anyone else, would be a smirk of amusement. On Batman, it's more or less one of his varying shades of grimace. This, like many other things he'll do before the night is through, is simply one more 'test'. Truly, there's no particular purpose to having done it, but luckily several of his training exercises can incorporate blindness.

There's a slight flicker of movement, and a batarang is buried in the wall to Stiles' left. The weapon barely makes a sound as it cuts the air, and the thunk it makes on impact is negligible.

"I threw a batarang. Tell me where it landed."

[skybluejeep]

Yeah, he really wasn't expecting to be totally blind, either. So, dirty tricks. Batman's all about being a sneaky bastard. So, based on that...

"To my left," he answers immediately. No hesitation, no second-thoughts. Because he's got a few tricks up his own sleeve, even without honing his senses for the night, or becoming a werewolf, or any of that.

"Probably about four feet to my left, just about the height of my ear."

[cowled]

He's never been one for overt praise, so all Stiles gets is a faint hmm. This time, he throws two. One thunks into a ceiling beam almost inaudibly, the other simultaneously buries itself in a panel of wood behind Stiles at roughly shoulder length.

"Again."

[skybluejeep]

He's not even gonna ask how he knew? Pff. Come on, Batman, he wants to show you his thought process.

This time, he does actually hear the two distinct 'thpp' noises as the things embed themselves in the infrastructure. And his brain is now whirring a million miles a minute. The Dark Knight...the greatest detective to live. Yep. So, dirty tricks and intimidation tactics.

"One's to my right this time, just to prove a point. The other...probably at my feet. Just an inch from the tip of my sneaker, so when I pull off this hood I can see just how close you came, just how good your control is."

[cowled]

Bruce studies him in silence. He doubts Stiles is that easily confused equally as much as he doubts the first call was a fluke. Is he honestly trying to test Bruce in return? The thought's an amusing one.

"Wrong on both counts. But you knew that already."

The mistake, of course, was in the fact that Stiles chose to butter up any reason Bruce might have for 'showing off' his control. He has no cause to do so, he's well aware of how perfect he drives himself to be in all the physical arts he plies himself to. He has to be perfect. To be otherwise gets people killed.

[skybluejeep]

"What?!"

He reaches up to pull the hood off, and his frown is practically visible underneath it.

"Oh come on! You're right-handed, anything you throw at me while facing me is gonna end up on my left. That's so obvious, that's just basic. And then..."

The hood is off, and yup, wrong. Nothing at his feet.

He turns and looks behind him, and then frowns.

"...Up. You threw it up into the ceiling," he grouses, not even looking up to confirm it. "Damn it. You're right, that was stupid, you don't need to show off for me, I'm just an idiot kid. Ugh."

[cowled]

"You think I'm right handed?" Bruce asks mildly. He is, of course. Ambidexterity is something he had to learn, and involved years of forcing himself to use his left hand for otherwise simple or mundane tasks one might not expect, from throwing a grapple line right down to stirring his tea.

He sighs. "Stiles, listen to me. What I see here is someone who wants to run before he can walk. What I'm teaching you takes dedication, tenacity, intelligence, and above all, patience. You will never be stronger than what you come up against. Ever. You will never be faster. You will never have their invulnerabilities or their enhanced senses. What that means is that you have to out think them. You can't rely on luck, or hope, or chance. Before a fight ever starts, you have to win. Up here." He lifts a hand, taps one finger against his own temple. "If you aren't twenty moves ahead of everyone else, you will fail, and you already know what the cost of that failure is, or you wouldn't be here in the first place."

[skybluejeep]

"What, you think I haven't figured that out already?"

He tosses the hood aside, because if he wanted to do blind training, he'd sign up with Obi Wan Kenobi and get a kick-ass lightsaber out of the deal.

"I'm well aware, trust me. I didn't hear those batarangs hit the wall. I was basing it on knowing you. I was guessing based on logic and how you operate. I'm not twenty moves ahead, no, but I'm not ten steps behind, either. I have to run, I have to run now, because I've already seen people die because I was too slow figuring it all out. My dad's entire station was wiped the fuck out because I was too slow, and they were eviscerated by a giant lizard man with poison spit. Okay?"

cw suicide/death

[cowled]

Bruce folds his arms. "Then leave. You learn my way, or not at all. There is no middle ground, no compromise. Ability needs a stable foundation. If you attempt to accelerate your training, if you want to 'half-ass' it to the top, you'll die. And I would be responsible."

He understands the need, the desire to protect people. He does. But he let Jason into the field before he was ready, and held his cooling body in his arms less than two years later. There is no room, no margin for error. Ever.

"And maybe that thought doesn't bother you. You show obvious signs of PTSD and survivor's guilt. So perhaps you think it'd be easier if you did your best and failed. But I don't train people to achieve a better sort of suicide."

[skybluejeep]

"What?! Jesus god, no!"

It's an automatic denial, a horrified look on his face, automatically taking a step back. It's complete revulsion, almost a cellular-deep jump back. That never was, never had been in his mind, furthest thing from it.

"No. Hell no. How the hell could I protect my family if I was dead? Okay, sure, I'll cop to the PTSD, and I'll cop to the survivor's guilt, and oh my god you have no idea how many therapy sessions I've gone through to try to get over that particular mental scar. Fine, I can be a morbid little shit. You caught me. But I'm not suicidal!"

[cowled]

"Then prove it. Learn my way." It's an ultimatum and a chess move all at once. Stiles knows better than to question his judgements or his experience in this regard.

The admittance of the morbidity - while not unexpected - does make Bruce's mouth settle into a slight frown. He'll have to work on that in his capacity as Bruce Wayne. Oh, he's not a trained therapist, but he'd been to one, after Jason. He knows enough psychology (studied it for years) to possibly be able to help without seeming to. If he plays his cards right.

[skybluejeep]

This is a kid who dragged his best friend with a life-threatening medical condition into the woods late at night to go see if they could find a dead body.

Yeah. He's a morbid little shit who's way too preoccupied with death and its aftermath. There might not be much to help, honestly. It's just part of who he is now, has been since the day he heard that uninterrupted drone from his mother's heart monitor, watched her blood oxygen count bottom out.

Pressing his lips together, and breathing pointedly through his nose, he sets his jaw and forces himself to shut up. Mouthing off to his hero is going to accomplish exactly squat. So he bends over slowly, and puts the hood back on without a word.