Haha...as promised (if you read my profile) I'm here with my little Batman one-shot. This was spawned from a story I made up to amuse my twelve-year-old niece...and I thought it might amuse you guys as well. Just for fun. This was typed in a hurry, so please forgive any typos.


Richard Grayson slid down the banister at top speed, keeping his balance with ease on the highly polished and pleasantly winding surface. Alfred hated when he did this, fearing that the boy would fall off and crack open his skull on the marble flooring several feet below. Bruce hated it because Alfred hated it. And so, if he was caught, he'd be banned from all things enjoyable from that day in mid-July to Christmas.

Despite, or perhaps because of, this risk, Dick continued to use and abuse the banister as his own personal roller coaster.

When at last the ride was coming to an end, he pushed off the banister, was airborne for a split second, and landed gracefully on his feet. Acrobats didn't fall...unless the equipment malfunctioned.

Shaking his head jerkily, Richard forced the thought from his mind and raced back up the marble stairs for another go.

This one he took on his feet, which was slightly more challenging, and thus, a lot more fun. He was panting and laughing by the time he reached the bottom, and, deciding he wanted a snack, headed for the kitchen to see if Alfred had made anything good.

He was not disappointed in his quest; the warm, gooey smell of freshly baked cookies hit him the instant he stepped through the door. Grinning eagerly, Dick crept forward and snatched a cookie straight off the hot tray, burning his fingers on the metal.

A loud "ahem" directed his attention to the doorway leading into the living room, in which Alfred stood, eyebrow cocked. "You could have waited, you know. They aren't going to get up and run away, Master Dick." His voice sounded agitated, but a small twinkle in his kind gray eyes revealed the truth.

Richard grinned sheepishly as he ate the cookie in two bites, licked the chocolate from his red fingers, and reached for another.

This proved to be pushing it, as Alfred whisked the cookie sheet out of reach, muttering, "Keep that up and eventually you'll have no fingers left to burn." He chuckled, and Dick knew that all frustration was just part of the game they played togehter. Giving Alfred a quick hug from behind, he shoved open the living room door, wondering if Bruce had gone to work yet.

A faint, "I wouldn't go in there if I were you," reached his ears, but he ignored it in a truly nine-year-old fashion. Generally anything that he was told not to do was something that needed to be done hard and frequently.

This hope drooped as he saw nothing in the room but a lump of fuzzy black bathrobe on the couch. Maybe this was one of those times when Alfred had been giving him a helpful tip, not attempting to take away his fun. All the same, curiousity would not allow him to leave until the situation had been thoroughly investigated.

A groan from the bathrobe made him jump slightly, now almost certain that Bruce was about to be in a very bad mood. The fact that he was late for work and still not dressed said that pretty plainly.

Dick was just attempting to sneak back out of the trap he had bounced right into when the black lump stirred, groaning threateningly. He froze in his tracks, siezed by a fit of nervous and completely silent giggles. Oh boy...he would get it now.

With a grunt, the lump pushed itself off the couch, slowly materializing into his distinctly blood-shot guardian. Bruce rubbed at his temples, grimacing in pain, then raked a hand through his already ridiculously messy hair.

Dick remained frozen, laboring under the delusion that if he held still long enough, he would disappear. Needless to say, this approach failed.

"Dick...?" Bruce grumbled, squinting in his direction. "What the...what are you...?" He glanced at the grandfather clock, then tensed.

"Dammit all to Hell!" he roared, making Dick jump a good twelve inches in the air. He almost let out a hysterical laugh. It would have been funny if Bruce wasn't so...damn scary. He grinned, satisfied with himself for correctly using the word.

Bruce leapt to his feet, stumbling slightly and holding both his head and his stomach simultaneously. Dick only just managed to leap out of the way before Bruce plowed on through the kitchen.

Dick faintly heard Alfred putting in his two cents as Bruce stormed through the kitchen. Good morning, Master Bruce. You're certainly looking chipper today."

No longer able to control himself, Dick burst into giggles, laughing until his sides burned. It never ceased to amaze him, the way Alfred smarted off to Bruce. Here he was, the Dark Knight of Gotham City, and a little old man was telling him what for. Alfred did the dishes, but it was quite clear who was really in charge.

Strugglign to catch his breath, Dick collapsed on the couch, still grinning. The familiar smell that accompanied such mornings as these snuck up on him, making him cough slightly. It wasn't necessarily a bad smell...just powerful and invasive. Swinging his legs, he glanced around the room in search of the remote, having already missed most of the morning cartoons. Before he found it, however, something else caught his eye.

A squarish glass bottle sat on the carpet next to the couch, the lid nowhere in sight. AN empty bottle lay beside it, a few dregs of amber liquid lingering in the bottom.

With a guilty glance toward the open kitchen door, Dick tiptoed over to it and shut it as silently as possible, then turned his attention back to the bottle. The curiousity was far too strong to resist.

"Jack Daniel's Tenessee Whiskey," read the label in fancy, old-fashioned hand writing. Dick once again glanced toward the door, considering what Alfred would do if he discovered him... Somehow, any punishment seemed well worth it at the moment.

Flicking on the TV and turning the volume up, Dick took the bottle as though it was a can of soda and took a swallow, imaging what it would taste like; it must be good, if Bruce liked it so much. In his eagerness, he left himself no back door option.

Instantly, Dick's throat burned and clenched, causing him to cough violently, blue eyes watering. When the coughing at last stopped, Dick promptly stuck out his tongue, whiping away the taste with his sleeve and gagging. Why on earth did Bruce like that stuff? You could lick a tire and get the same taste! What made it so...

Dick rubbed his head, bewildered at the warm fuzzy feeling somewhere in his brain. He tingled all over, feling slightly shaky as though he'd pushed too far in training, but he didn't really feel sick.

Eying the bottle suspiciously, Dick drew the obvious connection between what he just did and how he was feeling. There must be something seriously impressive about this Jack Daniel's stuff, if it made it worth suffering through the taste. Feeling an incredible surge of adrenaline at the intrigue of sneaking so incredibly bad, Dick made up his mind and took another sip--smaller, this time. It still burned way too much, but for some reason it didn't bother him as much this time. He giggled for absolutely no reason as warmth tingled from his head to his wiggling toes.

The harsh sound of Bruce's voice in the kitchen brought his happy moment to an end. Dick's eyes shot open to their full capacity. "Dammit all to Hell!" he said quietly (in his own mind that is), watching in slow motion as the bottle slid from his fingers and hit the cream colored carpet, releasing a cascade of amber liquid. "I'm dead," he whispered.

Stupid move number three hundred seventy-two.

The sounds from the kitchen immediately ceased, footsteps tapping on the wooden floor, coming closer with every second. Dick remained frozen, eyes popping out of his head, mouth dropped open. There was no way out of this one.

The door opened. Bruce, clean-shaven and dressed in his suit, stepped inside. He stared at Dick. The carpet. The empty bottles. And Dick's stomach got very sick.

"RICHARD GRAYSON!" roared Bruce, a look of complete shock on his face. "What are you doing!"

Dick opened his mouth to explain. A bad choice, as it happened, since explanation was the last thing that came out.

Having puked all over the cream carpet, making the amber stain look completely innocent, Dick sat shame-faced and comtemplating the sad loss of the cookie he'd hardly even gotten to digest.

Seeming about ready to explode, Bruce started several approaches. "What on earth made you... Do you have any idea how... I ought to..." He growled in frustration, raking his hands through his hair. "Don't drink what doesn't belond to you!"

Dick's lip quivered slightly, feeling distinctly emotional, and he bit it.

Bruce was biting his lip, too...but as it turned out, for different reasons.

He burst out laughing, shoulders shaking and eyes reduced to slits.

Dick started at him indignantly, getting the definite impression that he was the butt of the joke. What was so darn funny? He'd never felt worse in his life!

Laughing even harder at Dick's glare, Bruce got to his feet, ruffled his charge's hair (earning a growl of frustration) and made his way towards the door. Dick could barely make out his parting words.

"What in hell have I gotten myself into?"

Judging by his continued mirth, it was nothing he regretted to fiercely.

Alfred, however...

"Master Grayson, come here this instant!"

Dick winced, feeling extremely unprepared for this little confrontation. All the same, a grin krept onto his face as he contemplated the sheer nerve of what he had just done. Damn.


LOL um...see, I've always had the theory that Robin was a little terror as a child. Now, if you have any doubt that gulping Jack Daniel's would have that affect on him...don't. That is freakin' evil stuff, and on a nine-year-old who's never had alcohol...-shiver- Besides, I know grown people who can't handle more than a couple beers. Jack Daniel's is not nice ...Not that I would know... -cough- Hope you enjoyed. -Dusty