Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

♪

Robins are songbirds, luck and joy follows their wings.

Dick’s mother always used to say that robins bring with them signs of Spring and better things to come: “You’re my little Robin,” she’d whisper, on the nights when Dick lay buried in a sea of handmade quilts too antsy to sleep, “you’ll bring happiness to everyone you perch on.”

Dick holds onto the memory like a cherished treasure trove, he doesn’t have too many memories of those happy times left, so, he keeps the ones he does remember tucked close near a special part of his soul. It’s right next to his father’s calming scent of cologne from the old country, and the elated feeling he’d have in his chest way up high on that trapeze whenever his mother’s sure hold would catch his forearms without falter or slip.

We’re always here for you, we’ll always catch you. You’re always safe to fly with us, little Robin.

But Dick made a mistake. He’d forgotten all about catching them in turn, he let them fall.

(--That mistake costs him everything, his parents, the circus, Mr. Haley’s warm hugs, and the sure feeling of Zitka’s trunk around his waist reeling Dick in close and safe.)

Within a whirlwind of a precious split second decision--because of Dick's choice, to brush it off--something awful happens. Something awful happens that Dick could’ve prevented by just speaking up a little louder, by making just a little more noise. And because of it, Dick is ripped far, far away from the circus and everything and everyone he loves. Mr. Wayne’s eyes are dark and sad with he whisks him away--but his hands are big and warm. Dick trusts him.

But even then, all he can do that very night after Mr. Wayne brings him home, wings bound and grounded as Dick feels, is miserably curl up in those unfamiliar too stiff, too soft, bed sheets.--He misses Daj’s homey patchwork quilts, he was only able to bring one along with him, her scent is fading. The room is bigger than their tiny little homey trailer, Dick doesn’t like it much. If he were braver, he’d ask Mr. Wayne to give him a smaller one.

(He sings happy tunes, familiar lullabies, curled up in those wrong smelling bed sheets because even locked in a cage a robin can still sing--that’s what mother always said.)

At first, Dick anxiously wanders empty halls and silent corridors, anxious because he’s used to the noise, navigates awkward dinners with too little people or no people at all when he’s used to group-dinners with dozens; his new home after is uncomfortably quiet, uncomfortably lonely.

But still, he gains Bruce and Alfred--and that means something to Dick, he isn’t sure what. Not yet.

The two of them are lonely too, though, he knows. Dick is an observant child. It’s in the way Alfred’s fingers will sometimes pleasantly pat his head without so much as a backward glance, or the way Bruce will untense and his sporty tone will get just a little deeper; a much different tone than what Dick’s heard him use with the police and those slimy people he’s seen Bruce chatting with at galas. His voice gets lower and warmer when Bruce is being genuine, it reminds him of his Dat. Even after Zucco dies, from a heart attack of all things, under his heel. (--A lesson learned. ‘Justice not vengeance.’) Dick knows he can’t just… leave, Bruce and Alfred are still both so, very lonely.

Dick knows someone would certainly adopt him, he’s charismatic, pretty, blue-eyed--he can pass for a tan, golden-toned 'Mediterranean' for people too ignorant to ask. His odd-mishmash accent will likely fade by the time he hit high school, into something less obvious and passably American the longer he stays away from Haley’s. Dick knows how it goes, for children like him--adoption, or juvie. Really his chances would probably be just as good with a coin toss. People preferred babies after all. Dick was going to be ten next year.

But, when Batman takes him back to the manor that night, and softly tells him that it’s okay to hurt, that it’s okay for things to never stop hurting, even after justice is served. Dick decides he likes this little patchwork family he’s accidentally stumbled into just fine.

By the time Bruce takes him under his wing--for real this time, no secrets, capes, masks, and all--Dick has already made a promise to himself. Because he loves Bruce, he loves Alfred, and he never wants to watch anyone he loves fall again.

I’ll always catch them, I’ll always be there for them. I’ll fly.

***

Bruce is a lot of things, he’s ‘boss’ when Dick is Robin, putting on the mask of a boy who’s all cocky grins and playful flips--a distraction, a traffic light, someone to watch Batman’s back, make sure he’s there to catch him when he falls. He’s affectionately dubbed ‘B’ when he’ll nudge Robin under his cloak during one of Gotham’s nasty acid showers when they’re perched on a rooftop for a stakeout.

The name ‘Dad’ doesn’t come along until a few years later, when Dick finds he’s suddenly eleven, sitting at the small dining table in the kitchen as he eagerly devours Alfred’s french toast. He doesn’t stop until, there’s suddenly a hand combing back through his hair and a soft, upturn of the lips from a familiar face as Dick swallows down his breakfast and glances up, it comes with a ‘morning chum’ and a sluggish exhale of a yawn, before the hand leaves his locks.

“Morning, D…” Dick blinks once, then twice, he mentally turns the aborted title over in his head and meets Bruce’s eyes. They’re softened around the edges like they are every time he catches at Dick doing something mundane and normal as of late, like homework, or chirping away about the school, or occasionally a case he’s taken the lead on. It reminds him of--

“Morning, Dad!”

The response feels right, even if the hurt is still there--it never stops hurting, his parents still fell, Dat is still never going to catch him again or tell him stories of his grandparents or do that silly thing where he’ll twirl his mustache, but... Dick keeps on saying it. B calls him ‘son’ all the time anyway, it’s only fair.

And if the phrase sometimes catches Bruce unawares enough to make him stumble over flat ground and it also makes Alfred beam the warmest of smiles… well, Dick isn’t complaining about that either.

***
Some days are lonely enough to make him ache, sometimes Dick misses the circus, and the lights and the noise. Because the manor is just so... quiet, even the chirp of the songbirds among the trees seems subdued, like they’re in the same kind of mourning as the rest of the manor.

Dick spends a lot of time up in the trees. Even if the songs of the birds whisper sadness, it’s still far less lonely than climbing up on the empty manor roofs and practicing his balance.

***

The kids at school either have heard the rumors and whisper, or ignore the parts of him they don’t know how to deal with and just happily allow Dick’s charismatic orbit to suck them in. Dick can’t exactly fault them for it, most of the kids at Gotham Academy Middle grew up either in four-story suburban manors, or ‘normal’ neighborhoods that don’t pack up and leave to go to the next audience.

But Dick is a very good actor. He plays down his strange accent, he slots into the space that was neatly gouged out for him, even if he doesn’t quite fit. He doesn’t speak or mention his father’s mother tongue. He tells the happy stories about the circus and leaves out the things that keep him up late at night, like the frantic gaze of his mother as she felt the ropes slack, or the desperate way his father tried to toss his mother up one last time in hopes that she’d catch Dick’s outstretched hands.

Dick doesn’t talk about the bad things, it makes people too uncomfortable to keep trying. 

They can’t relate the way Bruce does. So, instead, he gets in the habit of talking about the good things, even falling into the habit around the manor, too. Bruce wrinkles his eyebrows a little more but doesn’t mention it; Dick feels grateful and conflicted.

One day, out of the blue, when Dick’s elated and buzzing with coiled energy after a particularly freeing patrol, Alfred suggests he sees a therapist offhandedly, Dick just inclines his head with a puzzled grin that goes just a little thinner, a bit more closed lipped.

“Why?”

Alfred looks so world-weary right then, just so sad, his shoulders slump and he doesn’t even say another word after that. Dick can’t resist the urge to step forward to hug the old man around his middle tight. “...You worry too much Alfie. I’m fine, see? I’m smiling.” Boney, speckled fingers knot tightly in his cape, Dick tucks his face into a suit jacket that smells of baked bread and cinnamon.

“That is exactly what worries me, my boy.” Dick doesn’t allow his fingers to tremble, but Alfred’s arms hug him in closer anyway. Nothing escapes Alfred.

***

Master Richard, are you happy?

Don’t I look happy?

***

Things start to change when Dick meets Barbara. She’s pretty and wild with red hair that reminds him of raspberries. She has a self-assured smile and a spunky glint in her aquamarine eyes. Dick decides he loves Barbara. He pesters B about her constantly, because Barbara is gorgeous, brave, and stubborn--she flies free and joyful as a fledgling sparrow, she pecks back like one, fights viciously like one.

But there are many dangerous things in Gotham. And ‘brave’ and ‘stubborn’ are very dangerous things to be in the Gotham that swallowed Dick’s parents, in the Gotham swallowed Bruce’s parents, in the Gotham that is trying to swallow Barbara’s father every day he spends in service as the GCPD Commissioner.

Either way, ice still unfurls, sharp and painful, in Dick’s veins the night her line snaps.

Batman hasn’t so much as left the platform before Robin is off like a shot, there’s a fine trimmer in his hands when he catches her around the waist in an iron grip. She’s heavier than he is, she’s older than him by three years, but Dick doesn’t so much as falter until they make it back on solid ground, on a nearby rooftop. He manages a quip and a clever smile, as he releases her and chatters away to distract from the trimmer that still hasn’t left his fingers. His eyes are wide behind his lenses, he stands tense, too still--because Dick is never still.

If Bab’s notices she doesn’t mention it, too busy trying to catch her own breath.

He doesn’t stop talking until Batman’s form lands down beside him. (Good. Barbara was just starting to notice the waver in his voice.) A part of Robin is relieved when a familiar cape of kevlar and safety sweeps itself over his shoulders. He’s swiftly hidden from sight as B growls and grumps above him, looming over Barbara with all the anxious hostility of a ruffled Lioness who’s cubs have left the den too early.

After that night, Batman takes on Batgirl too. Dick finds he loves flying with Babs, she’s playful and mischievous in comparison to Batman’s no-nonsense demeanor. Patrol is fun and freeing but in a different way now, he finally has someone to bounce puns and jokes off of.

Babs goes to Gotham Academy--she’s in the high school section, but that’s okay. Middle schoolers and high schoolers share a lunch period. One day, tired of pretending and so very tired of not being himself, he takes a seat at her table. And suddenly, just like that with just a word of encouragement from Babs and a friendly arm thrown over Dick’s shoulders, her library club friends become his library club friends and school becomes just a little more fun. He’s still the youngest one there, so, the upperclassmen decide to ‘adopt’ the little twelve-year-old circus brat. Not that Dick’s sure what the point behind that is. But he has people to sit with at lunch who understand his advanced math jargon at least better than his peers do, so, Dick is happy.

Babs comes by the manor now, too, Bruce starts inviting the Commissioner to galas, and eventually, Gordon starts bringing Barbara along too. Dick now has someone to giggle and drink punch with under tables and people-watch the overly-extravagant upper crust of Gotham.

For a while, it's nice, things don’t feel as somber around the manor anymore. Bruce stops startling when Dick calls him ‘dad’, even when he does it out of the blue. Dick feels less negative, his heart bleeds--bleeds for Bruce, bleeds for Alfred, bleeds for Barbara --he needs them. And because Dick’s never been one for loneliness, because he can't distance himself they way Bruce does, he lets them in.

(It scares Dick, late at night when it's quiet and there's nothing to pull him out of his own head. Realizing how much he needed to be there to catch someone other than Bruce or Alfred, realizing that Barbara had whittled her way into his ‘family’ without even trying at all.)

***

The decision is yours alone, Master Richard.

You could very well walk away from this crusade and spend your life in happier pursuits.

***

Bruce and Oliver hate each other, but Dick finds he likes Speedy; lionhearted, bull-headed, firecracker Roy Harper, he finds he likes just fine. Almost too easily, Dick slots the Arrow safely and neatly into that ‘his’ category he’s started to slowly cultivate with Bruce, Alfie, Babs and, tentatively, that teeny soft-spoken Drake boy with the clever eyes he’ll sometimes chatter with at galas when his parents bring him along. The manor suddenly seems brighter as he texts and skypes Roy in Star City.

Babs is his sparrow, Roy is his arrowhead. Dick firmly decides he won’t let either of them fall.

And soon enough, that number of people Dick has to remember to catch keeps growing and growing. Wally comes barreling into Dick’s life from Central City like a dive-bombing hummingbird, all smiles and territorial like nothing else, butting heads with Roy and swinging a boisterous arm around Dick’s shoulders in that same breath. The trio of them together are a collective menace, and when Garth comes along Dick finds he’s like a much-needed summer shower--sensible, logical, calming. Him and Roy also buttheads spectacularly , though, it all makes Dick giggle a bit.

(He starts to wonder if maybe his Arrowhead’s a little bit territorial about what’s 'his' too.)

Soon after that, however, Donna comes along and it’s like whoa.

Something snaps immediately into place in a way Dick’s never felt before. It’s different from when he met Babs or Roy. Donna is the sister he never had, a comrade-in-arms who only took a meeting of gazes and a vague head twitch in an equally vague direction to know where he needs her to be when he needs her, his twin star, his. And by the elated look in her eyes, the first time she ducks and Dick springboards over her shoulders without pause or second thought in the heat of battle, weaving seamlessly inwards to watch her back--he knows Donna must feel it too.

Later, after they’ve formed the Teen Titans officially and they have their own Bat-approved base, hotline and all, Donna’s fitted soundly against his thigh as Dick braids and re-braids her ponytail with restless fingers. She is sharpening a dagger.

Roy asks out of the blue if they’re dating--Wally and Garth both go rigid in response and shoot the archer twin looks of panicked horror. Across the room, Garth mutters an insult that sounds like it’s berating Roy’s lack of ‘tact’. Dick just blinks in bare confusion, Donna’s left eyebrow arches dubiously.

“Dick would be a terrible boyfriend for me. He’s way too overprotective. He’s better as my brother anywho-- easier to brush off his infuriating mother-henning that way.”

With those words, Donna goes right back to sharpening her dagger, and Dick goes back to combing his fingers through her hair so he can restart the braid again, there's nothing to add. Donna's always good with words, better than him sometimes, even. And that’s the end of that.

(His Star, his Arrowhead, his Angelfish, his Speedster--none of them are birds, not really, but that’s okay. Dick won’t let them fall either.)

***

...Or I could do some good.

Someone's gotta help him. It may as well be me.

***

It’s 2 o'clock am on a Friday ‘morning’, March 21st, ironically, the first day of Spring when Robin spots a scruffy Gotham Crime Alley pup prying the wheels off the boss’s Batmobile like nobody's business. For a while, he just perches above on the fire escape, kicking bare slender legs idly as he just stares and stares-- Bruce had told him to stay put, Dick had popped down to the convenience store for donuts. He’s turning fourteen today, after all, Dick had thought he was allotted to a few sweet treats, thank you very much.

When he got back from his food run, however, someone new was waiting for him.

The takeout bag is still warm in his lap, he’s got six more glazed donuts to burn through waiting for B’s interrogation to finish. The pup prys free wheel number three and gets to work on the caps with a screwdriver, out of all the things Robin was expecting to see on the streets today, auto theft wasn’t exactly at the top of his priority list, but less to the Batmobile. --Yeesh, talk about having nerves of titanium.

Dick doesn’t realize he’s smiling hard enough for his cheeks to ache until the boy is moving onto the fourth and final tire, he’s leaned forward far enough that he may as well be asking for a strong gust of wind to make him lose his footing. Just as the boy gets to work on prying away at the fourth and final hubcap, Dick lets his weight go completely, flipping down the fire escape with nary a misstep.

“Wow. This is some birthday present,” Dick comments gamely, there’s a twinkle of mirth in his eyes as he plucks another donut out of his bag and rips off a piece of glazed pastry, swallowing it down. “You know, I was hoping for a quiet night but look at that, I met a new friend instead.”

The boy’s back goes rigid, then slowly, warily his grip tightens on the tire iron, “I ain’t your friend, kid.”

“Well, I like your face, so I think that’s enough substance for me to wanna get to know you.” Dick leans forward, grinning with all teeth as the boy grimaces and steps back a few paces, his hands around the tire iron are unsteady now.

“Listen, kid--Wonderboy,”

“Boy wonder.” Dick chimes in.

“Whatever. Boy Hostage, Boy Dumbass, don’t matter to me none.” A giggle bubbles its way past Dick’s lips, he really likes this one. “If the Bat didn’t want his tires stolen he shouldn’a parked his piece of armored junk in Crime Alley--what kinda vigilante with the money to make bat-shaped boomerangs don’t even think ta’ put security alarms on his car.”

This keeps on getting better and better, Dick thinks he might love this kid.

“Wow. Authentic accent you’ve got there.”

The boy grimaces baring his teeth, he indeed reminds Dick of a snarling puppy, even though standing he’s got a good five or six inches over him. “Aw, get the fuck on will ya? Some of us needa eat ‘round here. These hubcaps alone‘ll put me up for a good several months. --An’ I talk just fine.”

“Not all’a us can be uptowners, yeah?”

With that the alley kid shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, he’s got on an oversized bomber and high water jeans, his sneakers are scuffed up to high heaven--if Dick were to guess he’d suppose they were probably red instead of maroon at some point. As he watches those pale cheeks redden slowly but surely the longer the silence stretches on, Dick decides to take pity on him.

“... You keep calling me 'kid'. Aren’t you a kid yourself?”

“Gonna be fourteen in five months.” Dick’s grin gets a little more crooked at that, far too smug.

“Ooh. I’m older than you then.” He puffs out his chest, stands a little straighter.

“Aw cockshit, no way, you’re like--eleven!”

Dick’s mouth drops open, seeming genuinely offended for a moment as his eyes snap upwards to glare at the other boy. “Am not... wait. Is that why you wouldn't attack me with that obvious tire iron you think I don’t see you considering?” the kid squawks, flushing awkwardly, “Because you think I'm eleven? I’m just waiting for my growth spurt to hit, that’s all! Look at my face, does my face look eleven to you?”

“Can’t even see half your face, Einstein," the boy starts, defensively, "and whaddya doin’ asking some criminal to take a closer look at your face anywho? Don’t you Bats need'a stay anonymous for good reason?"

“Well," Dick mocks an innocent thoughtful look for a moment before he leers, leaning into the other's personal space, "maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to take a closer look at your face.”

The boy’s cheeks promptly light up red, it makes Dick's chest do something weird. “Christ 'n a shitter you talk way too much.”

“It’s called having social charisma.” And then Dick proceeds to stick out his tongue because he is a very mature young adult, the boy growls something rude that Dick allows to roll off his back like shower water. “And what’s that ‘criminal’ thing you’re on about? Something I should know?” Dick slides back into Robin easily, keeps his voice neutral and perky, though he takes a bit to double check to make sure the boy wasn’t wearing any prominent gang colors. That would suck. It’d be even harder to convince B that this boy’s a winner if he turns out to be an active gang member.

The boy shoots him a funny look, “... You legit just watched me try to steal the tires off the Bat’s ride.”

“Ehh, you probably need them more than he does,” Dick says, playful smile still in place as he circles the alley brat, movements slick and balanced as one of Ms. Selina’s cats. “So, about your name--?”

The boy stiffens instantly, “The fuck you need my name for, huh? You tryin’ to make something outta this?”

“Nope .” Dick says, popping the ‘p’ carelessly. “I just can’t very well keep on calling you ‘pup’ in my head, that’s all.”

That gets him an offended look, “I’m taller than you.”

“And?”

“And, I’m a shrimp.”

…At least he’s self-aware.

“I’m shorter than a lot of things. Like the average-year-old St. Bernard puppy, and you apparently--just to name two. Actually, you kind of remind me of one what’s your point?” There’s a loaded silence between them as those distrustful seafoam blue eyes squint hard as if trying to see right past Dick’s mask. It’s like the boy’s already waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Dick hasn’t even decided what to do with the weird fuzzy, warm feeling perpetuating his chest yet.

“... I’m not a St, Bernard,” the boy says finally with a faint scoff, cheeks coloring again as he takes a sudden interest in the far alley wall, “I’m more of a Pit...”

Dick’s grin brightens so much his cheeks ache. An olive branch. He stops circling and leans in close, “A badly behaved one at that, sucks to be you if you were trying to sound tough, Pitbulls are supposed to be sweethearts.”

"All dogs are sweethearts. I’d prefer ‘em to people any day. I’m people, so I’m obviously not a sweetheart. Those don’t last too long on Gotham’s streets.” The boy shrugs.

Dick gets distracted. He internally maps out a developing jawline, broad shoulders far different from his own--the hints of malnourishment are concerning but even Dick can tell the kid’s gonna grow up to be a bruiser if malnourishment hasn't stunted him too badly yet. Maybe as big as Bruce if the awkward size of those hands and feet are anything to go by…

“...--Uh. You still with me?” Asks a somewhat wary voice that has Dick flinching out of his musings.

“Yeah. Totally. Just,” Dick pauses, “You still haven’t told me your name yet.”

“Neither have you,” the other answers smartly, making Dick pout.

“Those are the words of someone who wants to be called ‘Pup’ for the rest of his natural life.”

“Call me that again, Wonderboy--”

***

The boy’s name turns out to be Jason. Dick thinks it’s a nice name. Much to Jason’s chagrin, however, even after two hours of chatting in that filthy lower Gotham alleyway Dick does not stop calling him ‘pup’. Although at the sight of Dick's collection of warm glazed donuts, Jason does soften up a little, at least enough to sit down next to him on the alley pavement. As they share the frosted pastries, Dick pokes and prods information out of him in turn. ("What do you mean you live in a box." "I'm in between places right now--but I can go back to it if you're gonna be elitist about it." "No, no, don't go--it's just...no one should live in boxes." "... Plenty of people don't have a choice 'round here.")

At around 4 am, B returns to his predictably chatty Robin sitting next to his decidedly un-chatty company. Dick can see the exact moment the Bat realizes that his car is on cinder blocks. “ Robin.” Batman’s voice is all Bruce right then--flat, tired, and terribly exasperated, it’s enough to have Dick perking his head up with a bright smile.

“B!”

Batman squints hard as Jason bristles and glares at him with about the same ferocity as a cornered animal. He clenches his grip around the tire iron in his left fist like a lifeline.

“What is… this.”

“This is Jason. I've decided that I like him--I'm taking him home with me."

"He's a boy, not a dog, Robin--"

"Of course not, he's my new friend!"

Jason swivels his gaze to stare at Dick, then back to Bruce warily, squinting in something like suspicion. “Wait, what--when the hell did I agree to be friends with--”

Bruce crosses his arms warily, smoothly cutting the boy off, all his attention focused on Dick, “... We can't just steal him off the streets, Robin." He hesitates as if he thinks that if he gets a step closer he’s going to get bitten--just like an alley mutt, Dick notes not without a sense of humor. He can tell by B’s constipated expression that he’s stuck halfway between wanting to help it, and sort of wishing it was nowhere near his son.

"... Keeping this boy is simply out of the question, we don't even know where he came from."

Dick eyes narrow, his expression grows defensive and stormy, "You kept me." Dick says with purpose, B inclines his head, but Dick can spy the telltale surprised widening of his eyes, even beneath the cowl. B is well aware of Dick’s tendency to collect people at this point, in Dick’s opinion Bruce really doesn’t have room to talk, with the League and all the satellite teams the guy runs… Actually, in retrospect, Dick inheriting Batman’s bad habit of finding and keeping people was probably inevitable.

How'd the saying go, again: Like father like son?

"And besides B, I like him." Dick presses and Bruce's shoulders drop in dismay.

"... I only left you alone for four hours. How? "

"That was your first mistake."

“... What about Batgirl, isn't she enough?”

“Babs is different--”

“Names.”

Dick crinkles his nose, then stubbornly insists, “She’s mine too and she's different.”

“Wonder Girl?”

At this Dick fires back smartly, “Diana?”

“Speedy.”

“Green Arrow.” Dick singsongs, a lopsided smile stretching his lips. “Your entire League, actually. Before you get started. Aren't they 'enough'? You keep taking on new ones every other week lately.”

Jason sort of looks like he wants to slink away and hide somewhere.

There’s a long beat of silence, B still looks righteously offended by that last comment implicating Ollie as being one of ‘his’ he looks ready to argue further before, suddenly, Dick brings it all home with another quiet, far more serious, insisting this time: “You kept me.” Jason tries to warily scoot away, Dick promptly grabs his collar and yanks him right back down next to him on the alley pavement, he does not break eye contact with Bruce.

“Dad...”

Bruce’s spine goes ramrod straight, as though just the sound of that word alone had flayed the skin off his back raw. His gauntleted hands give a minuscule twitch. Jason looks at Dick with a deer in headlights look that’s part ways confusion and other parts dawning horror.

“Please...? ”

.

.

.

“So, you ain't gonna, like. Take me out to the docks and shoot me Old Yeller style, right? Cause that’d be a shitty way to go.”

“For the last time, Jason, Batman does not kill.”

“Not in public, maybe--you really expect me ta'believe that the Bat himself ain't capable of making the body of some punk-ass street orphan disappear who’s not even registered in the system? A street orphan who, may I remind you, tried to jack his tires no less than a few hours ago?"

“Yeesh. Well, aren’t you just a bucket full of optimistic sunshine.”

***

Always bear in mind that this is his crusade , it need not be your life as well.

I know.

***