(no subject)
Complex
By Anton Rex
Summary: That question, rumors, and what Dick wants.
Disclaimer: They belong to D.C.
Rated: PG-13
Thanks to Vanessa for the beta. Apologies to James Joyce for the ending line.
In the end, everyone wanted to know the answer to the same question.
It was spat as in insult by thugs he wrestled to the ground. It morphed into gossip on the lips of jilted debutantes and their jealous mothers, whispered around the powder rooms of Gotham's finest parties. One of the Joker's many talents was finding new and creative ways to insinuate it, and of course, it was in the eyes of every guidance counselor he sat across from, as he smiled and rattled off his latest excuse for his latest network of bruises.
There was no right way to answer. He had tried denying it all, only to find that he was believed less in direct proportion to the disgust in his voice. Sarcasm backfired as well; rolling his eyes and saying "yeah, sure, all the time" only seemed an obvious, desperate ploy.
There was no right way to answer, because everyone thought they already knew.
He suspects that everyone would be shocked most of all to find out that it was the truth: no, they had never fucked. Nothing of the sort.
He couldn't remember when he became aware that this is what people thought about Batman and Robin. He did remember, however, when he found out that anyone suspected similar things of Dick and Bruce. He was 17, and Bruce had brought him along to a Gotham society event. By the buffet table, he caught a snatch of gossip from a nearby conversation.
"...Bruce brought his little boy toy tonight...."
He had assumed that people suspected Batman because he was a character of ill repute anyway. Most of Gotham wasn't sure what to make of him anyway, and sleeping with his sidekick was actually one of the most wholesome activities Batman was accused of.
He thought the consensus was, however, that Bruce Wayne was a good man. A playboy and something of eccentric, to be sure, but also a philanthropist, an upstanding citizen. Somehow, the idea that he was Bruce's under aged kept boy seemed infinitely more perverse then being Batman's hot pants wearing subservient sexpot.
He asked Bruce about all of this only once. After a fairly calm patrol, he was nursing a bruise on his left cheek, and mulling over in his mind the latest insinuation this particular thug had given him before the kick in the face. The kick was more of surprise, but the comment stung more.
It certainly got under his skin. He watched Bruce, his chin resting on his gloved hand, staring intently at some flashing data on the computer screen. It was amazing, how Batman knew each crevice and shadow of this city, while the city knew nothing about Batman. This was his own doing, Batman's mystery being essential to his existence. He would never be the shining, smiling superhero, saving puppies while news reporters snapped photos or appearing at local charities dressed as Santa Claus.
The problem was that as people knew next to no facts about the Batman, they were free to believe whatever they wanted. The problem was that Gotham did not trust Batman, and they seemed to want to believe the worst.
Dick was candid with Bruce about everything except this. Watching Bruce watch the screen with such single-minded intensity, Dick couldn't imagine that he let anything as fickle and shallow as public opinion distract him. But still, Dick had to know.
"Does it bother you, what people say about us?" he said.
Bruce turned to him in something like surprise, and Dick was suddenly aware of how awkward that sounded. Bruce raised an eyebrow.
"No," Bruce said, "The opinions of others doesn't concern me and I suggest you not pay any attention to it, either." At typical Bruce answer, and in typical Bruce fashion, he turned back to the screen, signifying the end of the conversation.
"You're telling me it doesn't bother you at all?" Dick persisted.
Bruce kept his back turned, and was silent for a moment. "Dick, what is this about?" he said.
Dick sighed. "I don't know. I just find it hard to believe that you don't care what people say. About you. And about us. Because it bothers me."
Bruce looked at him, his face cold and hard. "There is nothing either of us can do to change what people think. It's a waste of our time and energy to worry about it. I decided that a long time ago."
Dick faltered for a moment, because he knew that Bruce would not say anything but this. It was the right answer, the correct response to the situation. But it wasn't the answer Dick wanted, because he hadn't asked the right question.
Did Dick care what people thought of both Bruce and Batman? Yes. Did he care about his own reputation? Of course.
"I know that," Dick said, "but that's not what I wanted to hear."
It was unfair that he had a reputation for something he wanted but could never have. That is what he wanted Bruce to tell him. Dick wanted to know that Bruce didn't touch him because it would be wrong. Dick wanted to know that Bruce practiced infinite self-resistant. Dick wanted to know that it hurt, because it hurt him.
"Dick, I don't have time for this."
Dick hadn't had a father for very long, but it was long enough to recognize that tone and know that this conversation was truly over.
And that was the crux of it, the kernel at the center of everything they were. The answer to the question.
There were times a well-meaning counselor would make a comment about "his father".
"My father is dead," he would say, until he realized what they meant, and blushed, in spite of himself, stammering to explain that Bruce was his guardian.
He never consciously thought of Bruce as his father, the thought repelled and horrified him, and not just because he remembered his actual father with such clarity. No one should dream about his father the way he dreamt about Bruce.
Bruce was, in spite everything people thought of him, in spite of the fog he wove around himself, a very good man. In his eyes, Dick was a child, still the boy he had touched gently on the shoulder that day at the circus. This was the only way good men touched children, particularly their own.
Dick wasn't a child anymore, and Bruce couldn't see it. All the fights they had didn't change that. Nightwing didn't change that. So, Dick tried to find a place to put these feelings that could never be satisfied. And that question followed him, still, because the answer was so much more complex then most suspected.
He still hoped that one day Bruce would look at him and see a man, a man who could make his own decisions about his life, and most of all, a man he could love and want. When Dick finally saw that, he could make the first move and Bruce would cup his face in his hands and ask if he was sure about this, and Dick would say yes, he was, yes…
Be cruel, it's the only way I'll learn.
By Anton Rex
Summary: That question, rumors, and what Dick wants.
Disclaimer: They belong to D.C.
Rated: PG-13
Thanks to Vanessa for the beta. Apologies to James Joyce for the ending line.
In the end, everyone wanted to know the answer to the same question.
It was spat as in insult by thugs he wrestled to the ground. It morphed into gossip on the lips of jilted debutantes and their jealous mothers, whispered around the powder rooms of Gotham's finest parties. One of the Joker's many talents was finding new and creative ways to insinuate it, and of course, it was in the eyes of every guidance counselor he sat across from, as he smiled and rattled off his latest excuse for his latest network of bruises.
There was no right way to answer. He had tried denying it all, only to find that he was believed less in direct proportion to the disgust in his voice. Sarcasm backfired as well; rolling his eyes and saying "yeah, sure, all the time" only seemed an obvious, desperate ploy.
There was no right way to answer, because everyone thought they already knew.
He suspects that everyone would be shocked most of all to find out that it was the truth: no, they had never fucked. Nothing of the sort.
He couldn't remember when he became aware that this is what people thought about Batman and Robin. He did remember, however, when he found out that anyone suspected similar things of Dick and Bruce. He was 17, and Bruce had brought him along to a Gotham society event. By the buffet table, he caught a snatch of gossip from a nearby conversation.
"...Bruce brought his little boy toy tonight...."
He had assumed that people suspected Batman because he was a character of ill repute anyway. Most of Gotham wasn't sure what to make of him anyway, and sleeping with his sidekick was actually one of the most wholesome activities Batman was accused of.
He thought the consensus was, however, that Bruce Wayne was a good man. A playboy and something of eccentric, to be sure, but also a philanthropist, an upstanding citizen. Somehow, the idea that he was Bruce's under aged kept boy seemed infinitely more perverse then being Batman's hot pants wearing subservient sexpot.
He asked Bruce about all of this only once. After a fairly calm patrol, he was nursing a bruise on his left cheek, and mulling over in his mind the latest insinuation this particular thug had given him before the kick in the face. The kick was more of surprise, but the comment stung more.
It certainly got under his skin. He watched Bruce, his chin resting on his gloved hand, staring intently at some flashing data on the computer screen. It was amazing, how Batman knew each crevice and shadow of this city, while the city knew nothing about Batman. This was his own doing, Batman's mystery being essential to his existence. He would never be the shining, smiling superhero, saving puppies while news reporters snapped photos or appearing at local charities dressed as Santa Claus.
The problem was that as people knew next to no facts about the Batman, they were free to believe whatever they wanted. The problem was that Gotham did not trust Batman, and they seemed to want to believe the worst.
Dick was candid with Bruce about everything except this. Watching Bruce watch the screen with such single-minded intensity, Dick couldn't imagine that he let anything as fickle and shallow as public opinion distract him. But still, Dick had to know.
"Does it bother you, what people say about us?" he said.
Bruce turned to him in something like surprise, and Dick was suddenly aware of how awkward that sounded. Bruce raised an eyebrow.
"No," Bruce said, "The opinions of others doesn't concern me and I suggest you not pay any attention to it, either." At typical Bruce answer, and in typical Bruce fashion, he turned back to the screen, signifying the end of the conversation.
"You're telling me it doesn't bother you at all?" Dick persisted.
Bruce kept his back turned, and was silent for a moment. "Dick, what is this about?" he said.
Dick sighed. "I don't know. I just find it hard to believe that you don't care what people say. About you. And about us. Because it bothers me."
Bruce looked at him, his face cold and hard. "There is nothing either of us can do to change what people think. It's a waste of our time and energy to worry about it. I decided that a long time ago."
Dick faltered for a moment, because he knew that Bruce would not say anything but this. It was the right answer, the correct response to the situation. But it wasn't the answer Dick wanted, because he hadn't asked the right question.
Did Dick care what people thought of both Bruce and Batman? Yes. Did he care about his own reputation? Of course.
"I know that," Dick said, "but that's not what I wanted to hear."
It was unfair that he had a reputation for something he wanted but could never have. That is what he wanted Bruce to tell him. Dick wanted to know that Bruce didn't touch him because it would be wrong. Dick wanted to know that Bruce practiced infinite self-resistant. Dick wanted to know that it hurt, because it hurt him.
"Dick, I don't have time for this."
Dick hadn't had a father for very long, but it was long enough to recognize that tone and know that this conversation was truly over.
And that was the crux of it, the kernel at the center of everything they were. The answer to the question.
There were times a well-meaning counselor would make a comment about "his father".
"My father is dead," he would say, until he realized what they meant, and blushed, in spite of himself, stammering to explain that Bruce was his guardian.
He never consciously thought of Bruce as his father, the thought repelled and horrified him, and not just because he remembered his actual father with such clarity. No one should dream about his father the way he dreamt about Bruce.
Bruce was, in spite everything people thought of him, in spite of the fog he wove around himself, a very good man. In his eyes, Dick was a child, still the boy he had touched gently on the shoulder that day at the circus. This was the only way good men touched children, particularly their own.
Dick wasn't a child anymore, and Bruce couldn't see it. All the fights they had didn't change that. Nightwing didn't change that. So, Dick tried to find a place to put these feelings that could never be satisfied. And that question followed him, still, because the answer was so much more complex then most suspected.
He still hoped that one day Bruce would look at him and see a man, a man who could make his own decisions about his life, and most of all, a man he could love and want. When Dick finally saw that, he could make the first move and Bruce would cup his face in his hands and ask if he was sure about this, and Dick would say yes, he was, yes…
Be cruel, it's the only way I'll learn.