Title: The Suit (pt 1)

Genre: fanfic (Batman Beyond)

Setting: sometime early on in the series

Rating: pretty darn G

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.


A chauffeur needs an appropriate suit, but Terry has never had the time or inclination to get one because quite frankly, he was not expecting to ever be doing anything remotely resembling driving a cranky billionaire to galas in a sleek black Cadillac with a nicely hidden Batsuit-sized space near the glove compartment. Anyway he assumes he can bum one off Wayne and save himself the embarrassment of more ecstatic motherly pride for a son who finally has more need of a tux than a juvie uniform.

When he mentions it Wayne stares at him blankly, apparently floored by the possibility that a boy could grow up without ever needing a nice suit. Terry points out that he'd assumed there would be only one suit he'd need for this job. Wayne smirks, takes up his cane, and tells Terry to follow him.

They end up somewhere in the east wing; Terry isn't quite following all the twists and turns of the manor, since he spends most of his time underneath it. There's something a bit twisted about the fact that he knows Wayne Manor's secret lair better than he knows the rest of the place. Wayne, of course, would know every inch of it blindfolded, which is a bit funny because as far as Terry can tell, he never goes anywhere except the cave and the living room. Probably doesn't even own a bed.

Wayne takes him to a bedroom which obviously hasn't been used in living memory. There are dust covers on all the furniture and nothing to distinguish it from a drab guest room, except that when Wayne pulls open the wardrobe, Terry can see it's full of clothing. Wayne hesitates in front of it, then steps aside. "Take what you need," he says. His voice sounds a bit tighter than usual.

Terry sticks his head into the closet, chokes on the dust, and eyes the array. A few suits, nice shirts, slacks; nondescript, the sort of thing he assumes most rich kids have. They look a bit small for Wayne. Terry hopes he won't be expected to iron something. Shouldn't there be a butler around for that? He fingers the collar of one of the shirts and notices initials stitched into the inside. He checks another; the same letters. They're on the pants and jackets as well. They'd probably be on the underwear too if there were any.

"Who's DG?" he asks.

Wayne doesn't answer. "I'll meet you downstairs," he says.