The thing about being Robin is that you have to
*research*. There's a lot to know. Beyond the
physical stuff, beyond the fact that in another few
years he'll be able to write publishable *papers* on
criminology -- both Dick and Bruce *have*,
under various pseudonyms -- you have to know
the usual suspects.

And this is where it gets harder, because for all the
access they get to the police files, and the Arkham
files, and for all the work his little unofficial family
has done to improve and *add* to those files,
there are still the little things. The
read-between-the-line things that make him the
*kind* of Robin he is.

He's not the detective Batman is. But he thinks
that won't last forever. Because, well, there are things
Tim knows that Batman -- that *Bruce* -- doesn't.
That he doesn't *want* to know. Whether it's about
his relationships with the family, or about those
*other* relationships.

Everyone knows Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent used to be
friends. But not everyone knows what the word 'friendship'
means to a man like Bruce. The nuances, the subtleties,

Two-Face isn't as strong as Croc and he isn't as diabolically,
insanely *intelligent* as the Joker. He's good, but mainly
he's in the pile of usual trouble because once upon a time
Bruce loved him.

It's his job to make sure that doesn't trip *Batman* up.

So he visits. He takes the abuse and the frothing vitriol
and the guards at Arkham *really* don't like to see
him 'stirring up the natives,' but he has to know. And
sometimes... Harvey talks.

Asks him questions Tim can't -- and wouldn't -- answer.
Tells stories and jokes and... well. Part of being Robin
means not reacting too strenuously when those stories
are about Bruce. It's better when he's drugged. When
he can time his arrival two or more hours after Harvey's
gotten the shot, after the effects and before the
temporary coma.

"He was so beautiful," Harvey slurs. "And so *stupid*.
But beautiful. And... maybe not stupid. Kid, I don't
know... I don't know what to say. He tried, you know?"

"Tell me."

"Good guy. A real..."

He dozes off, and lands in a way that's almost... he
can see it. The scars are pressed to the table, leaving a
faintly-weathered face that looks just like the
randomly attractive men that people the parties Bruce
Wayne throws. Only...

None of them are weathered like this. The eye moves
behind the lid with the rapid motion of dreams, of
*thought*. The mouth is hard from years of pain.
(Anger, insanity.)

He can see it.

"I'm glad you're not my friend," he whispers to the
glass, and listens to Harvey snore.