Title: The Suit (pt 4)
Genre: fanfic (Batman Beyond)
Setting: sometime early on in the series
Rating: some mild swearing
Notes: Batman was created by Bob Kane and is now probably owned by Warner Brothers, DC Comics, and other people who do not include myself. I'm just playing, not making money, so please don't sue me.
IV.
"I thought he was you," Dick confides in him later, sounding a bit sheepish.
"He is me," says Bruce. "Every part of me that matters."
Dick rolls his eyes. "Please don't tone down the drama after fifty years or anything." His radio crackles and he pulls it from his waistband, clips off a few words to a partner in a squad car Bruce assumes is stationed somewhere nearby. Bruce doesn't ask what Stan did in Blüdhaven or why Dick is in town after so many years to chase what is ostensibly a relatively low-priority hoodlum who is only set apart from the usual Blüdhaven lowlife by his penchant for hitting the detonator faster, more frequently, and in more diverse locations. That's Dick's business, and Bruce has long since learned not to stick his nose into Dick's business unless asked.
"You told me it wouldn't happen again," Dick continues quietly. "After Tim, you said...Well, what the hell, you've said a lot of things over the years and then just gone and done your own thing, haven't you?" He seems to realize how harsh his voice sounds, and suddenly he looks embarrassed, a shadow of the scrawny thirteen-year-old boy who was unable to meet Bruce's gaze after making a mistake, no matter how big or small. Dick always took it to heart, blamed himself, refused to accept anything less than absolute perfection. He was clever and spunky and always had a witty retort, but Bruce was never fool enough to ignore the pain Dick hid so well. Later he'd dropped a lot of the humor, at least in Bruce's presence, and gotten on with teenaged rebellion and a whole lot of anger, but the pain was still there and Bruce could still see it better than anyone. Dick lets his pain come through in his anger, immediately regrets it, then does it all over again. Nothing's changed.
"He wanted this," says Bruce. "He wanted to do some good."
"And dressing up like a flying rodent was his only option," says Dick coldly.
Bruce raises his eyebrows. "You didn't seem to mind."
"I never wore that suit. Not like he does."
And that's the crux of the matter, Bruce realizes. It's not just that he's taken on a new protegé; it's the suit that protegé wears, the name he's adopted. The fact that Terry is doing what Bruce never really let any of the others do: he is Batman.
"I didn't give it to him; he took it," Bruce growls, though he knows it's inadequate.
"But you let him keep it." Dick runs an aggitated hand through his hair. Bruce is surprised to see how much of it is gray. "Look, how old is he? Sixteen? Seventeen? I'm not saying he doesn't want it as much as the rest of us did, but have you ever considered that maybe you should've talked him out of it?"
Bruce smirks. "Barbara said the same thing."
Dick's face freezes for about half a second before he grimmaces. "Yeah. Barbara. Listen, I'd rather not be around when she gets to the scene, if it's all the same to you..."
Someone coughs politely from behind them. Bruce turns to find that Terry has returned, back in his borrowed dress clothing, playing the part of a frightened errand boy who ran off at the first sign of trouble and is now sheepishly coming out of hiding just in time to miss all the danger. He'd have the part down pat if he weren't doing such a poor job of hiding the glare he's sending Dick's way.
Bruce performs the introductions. "Terry McGinnis, Dick Grayson."
They shake on mutual animosity, leaving Bruce to wonder how he gets himself into these situations.