Borrowed Skin
by Miriam HeddyTerry McGinnis: Look, if you had any proof they were going to do something, it would be different. But I'm not going to change my plans because of a hunch.
Bruce Wayne: Batman would.
Terry McGinnis: Hey, I put my life on the line all the time. One night isn't going to make any difference.
Bruce Wayne: One night always makes the difference.
Terry McGinnis has had a long time to ponder just how it is that Bruce Wayne managed to wear The Suit all those years like it was perfectly natural—not even a second skin, but a first skin. He'd read somewhere that biology is destiny, except it's obviously not, because some days—a lot of days—Terry still feels like he's borrowing his own skin, which is shit. It's fucked. It's his. Except that it isn't— not really.
Terry thinks about it when a line of sweat trickles down his back and seems to lodge between his shoulder blades for hours, an itch just out of reach. They all are, and so he stretches as far as he can and takes it one day at a time, one evil, maniacal laugh at a time. And sometimes, lately, he wishes he could do what every other person does and get roaring drunk. Now that would be schway. Though nobody's saying that anymore. He isn't sure what the kids are saying now.
He thinks about it when he has to put on the other suit—the monkey suit—for one of Bruce's endless society events, and sometimes, the other monkeys are scarier than the maniacs. Actually, sometimes they are the maniacs, only with better fashion sense. He's never sure which is the costume, and when he catches them, he sometimes has the urge to strip them naked—to see what they really look like.
He thinks about it when he stands in front of the mirror naked, ignoring the clothing set out for him and picking out a cummerbund and tie that he knows Bruce will hate—something Bruce would never buy in a million years and would throw out if he found it. That's part of the fun of wearing it. No way is Terry going to look like a clone. Except that he is, really, and a piece of fabric doesn't change a thing, so the fun has its limits.
Tonight, he'd rather be wearing the mask and pointy ears. Considering the way a few of the moneyed invites keep staring at him, he gets a little paranoid. Is his hair sticking up where it shouldn't? But in the reflection of the slick, black, floor to ceiling window, he can see it's no worse than usual (about the same as it looks when the mask comes off. It's a look, even if Bruce doesn't appreciate it.).
He catches Bruce's eye and gets what passes for a smile, which is to say he doesn't get a frown or grimace. It's what he's come to think of as the Wayne flat-line, which usually means he hasn't said or done anything to tick the man off, yet, though there's always something in Bruce's expression to suggest that it's only a matter of time. Terry wonders if Bruce knows that it's a self-fulfilling prophecy—that he's essentially jinxing Terry with that look, because if Terry's going to spill a drink or trip over his own feet, or otherwise screw up the show, it's going to be because Bruce is staring at him.
Like that, actually. That look right there.
Ignore it, McGinnis.
And he does—as much as anyone can ignore being stared at by Mt. Rushmore's sixth head.
Terry narrows his eyes, trying to anticipate—taking in the room, mapping out potential obstacles: the skinny, balding guy with the roaming hands who's been hovering over the cheesecake. Check. The old blue-haired woman who's convinced he's a waiter despite having been told otherwise twice tonight— tonight of all nights. Check. The actual waiter—also, coincidentally, with roaming hands... Definitely worth checking out. He's not so much an obstacle as he is a hypothetical situation to ponder when Terry isn't pondering Bruce, who is pretty ponderous, actually. On the other hand, Bruce is always on him to do more than react. "You have to anticipate, and to do that, you have to know not just the moment as it is, but as it might be."
In a moment—or maybe an hour—Terry thinks that waiter (who's a little young, but cute) might be naked, tucked away in one of Bruce's many, many, many unoccupied rooms. And Terry might just be under him, rid of the suit and whatever shred of dignity he has left.
After Dana... well, it's not as if he had much dignity to start with. Eighteen years later and it's still "After Dana." A.D. The end of an era for the new—not so new anymore— Homo Chiroptera.
Then again, with his luck, legs-up would be exactly when Bruce would decide to find him, creeping around as he always does, so quietly that Terry wouldn't even hear him until it was too late, and he'd turn toward the open door in flagrante delicto, homo erectus, homo homo, and...
And what, exactly? Impress Bruce with the size of his vocabulary? Actually, that probably does impress him, even if he doesn't say much. All those new words he's picked up, thumbing through Bruce's endless tomes when the bruises get bad and he doesn't have the energy to do anything more than read. College was a bust— worse than high school, since he really couldn't focus when he didn't have to— when nobody really cared if you skipped out of class or just didn't show. But on his own, gradually, he was picking things up, actually learning— and not just about abnormal psychology (something he thinks he knows a little too intimately). He'd laughed—maybe too hard— when he read somewhere that fruit bats are sometimes gay. Dana had not gotten the joke. Max just thought he was strange. He hadn't shared that factoid with Bruce, but he somehow couldn't imagine Bruce laughing either.
He couldn't imagine a lot of things.
Because the door opens, and that's when it gets all blurry. And it has to be blurry—eyes kind of half-shut, horror-movie fingers over your eyes, hold your breath so you don't scream blurry— because if Terry spends any time looking too closely, thinking about the possibilities, he ends up thinking about the impossibilities—the really whacked-out, schway-crazy ideas he sometimes has, has actually had ever since Dana left him (or maybe before that, because some of them are probably directly responsible for Dana leaving him). Those are the ideas that keep him up at night, pacing the halls and trying not to run into Bruce (who does the pacing thing, only more quietly) and hoping like crazy for a reason to put on the suit and fly.
For awhile, he figured he'd just wait it out. Eventually, Bruce would die, right? Callous, but true— the way of the world (the normal world, anyway, so he probably should have figured on a Plan B). Thing is, somewhere between deciding not to be young again and giving up the ghost, Bruce just stopped. It's not that he's getting any younger, exactly— but he's not dead, and Terry figures that he should be by now, or at least showing some signs of aging (not that Terry wants that, but biology is destiny. Except where it's not.) So something's up. Bruce did something. After the kidney operation, but when? Terry hasn't asked, and Bruce isn't volunteering any info, so Terry's now operating under the assumption that eventually, if things keep going the way they're going, he's going to catch up with Bruce, which is... weird. But in a world of weird, it almost doesn't register on the scale. And there's the not-remote-enough possibility that whatever Bruce did to himself, he did to Terry, or plans to, or... but he's not going to think about that. Given the choice, he's planning to go the fruit bat route and leave Bruce to the vampire gig.
Luckily, he's learned Bruce's night route by now. He's learned how to avoid him without looking like he's trying, and how to get his black ass in gear fast enough when the call goes out, and how to do the job without having to listen to a six-part lecture on how it could be done better (which doesn't mean that Bruce doesn't still give the lecture. Terry's just learned how to not listen, or, more specifically, he's learned how to look like he's not listening, which continues to drive Bruce nuts, which is the point, really).
And that's it— there— the clock's chiming, he's made his appearance, done his duty (at least this part of it) and so he slips out and makes his way to his room, annoyed because the dress shoes click against the marble floors. Bruce probably had them specially prepared to do that, like a bell on a cat. Maybe Bruce is hoping he'll pick up echolocation as a hobby.
"Terry—"
He spins around too slowly— he can see that by the look on Bruce's face. And alright, he'd had a drink or two, and now he's going to pay for that.
"I—Bruce—"
"You've been drinking."
"Two glasses of wine." Terry holds up his fingers and stares at them, thinking they look wrong somehow.
"It was three."
"No... two. A glass of wine and a vodka and tonic and a... huh."
Bruce frowns but doesn't argue further because he doesn't have to argue. The Master has spoken. So three it is. Maybe. Fuck. Terry can't remember now, but he really wishes it were four. Five would be just about right. He sometimes thinks switching teams might be nice. The bad guys get to drink, and smoke, and...
"I don't want to be here."
Terry didn't plan to say it but now it's out there, so he turns around, intentionally putting his back to Bruce, and starts back down the hall to the stairs, up them and then down another hall, really annoyed now because the shoes are fucking loud, and behind him, he can tell Bruce is following even though the guy's still silent. It's that itch at his back—something in the way the air is moving that says Bruce. He doesn't know how he knows, but something Bruce taught him has sunk in. He knows.
So he moves a little faster down the hall. Click click click click click. He should be hearing Bruce moving, breathing—but he doesn't. What's that expression Max used? Silent as a heart attack.
Terry stops and leans against the wall, staring at his shoes, which are, damnit, scuffed. When did that happen? And Bruce has caught up faster than he should be able to, not even a little winded, and his cane taps against Terry's foot, just once, hard and probably adding to the scuff marks.
He can feel the warmth of Bruce breathing beside him, now. Bruce is standing too close, and Terry looks up, looks around, and realizes he's made it to just outside his room, far away from any of the guests. Terry wonders why Bruce left the party.
And then he opens the door, because it's there.
It's dark in the room, the heavy curtains shut the way he left them before it got dark out, but his eyes adjust fast now, so when Bruce pushes him up against the wall just inside the door, he can see a little more than the glittering of Bruce's eyes. He can see the sharp jaw-line, etched skin, silver hair. His mouth.
"Leave." Bruce says it so quietly, but hard, like he means it, and Terry might, except Bruce is holding him there, and even if he thought he could get past him (doubtful), he wouldn't try.
"You don't want to be here," Bruce adds, and Terry looks away. Okay, so yeah, that's what he said out there in the hall. And maybe he meant it. Maybe he still means it. But—"Leave," Bruce says again, louder, as if that makes it easier—as if it were even possible at this point. Sorry, no can do.
"I can't," Terry's trying not to sound like the whiny kid Bruce thinks he is, and Bruce backs up with a curt nod, so maybe he's pulled it off.
And then Terry does something impossible, even for the Batman. He steps away from the wall and right into Bruce's personal space. Hell, the way he figures it, it's pretty much all Bruce's personal space. It's his house, his costume, his car, his plane, his toys, his boy—
Terry hears a sound like a gasp and it isn't Bruce inhaling one last lungful of air (Bruce's air—it's all his, isn't it?) before kissing him on the mouth. Still, somebody's kissing somebody, and is now really the time for recriminations?
Bruce doesn't move away, not even when Terry finally has to exhale and breathe again, stealing a little more of Bruce's air and taking in the subtle scent of expensive aftershave and the sweat just under that, masked unless you're this close, and nobody gets this close to Bruce Wayne. He's not sure if anyone kisses Bruce Wayne. He can't imagine it. Except that he's doing it, now, and yeah, imagination has never been his strong suit. And it's schway— or whatever's beyond that.
Then again, Bruce is already inside him, always has been. It's a reciprocal invasion. So really, a kiss—what was that, really? Two mouths doing something other than arguing.
"McGinnis, what are you doing?"
Good question, Mr. Wayne. If it was a sane universe they lived in, the call would come now and he could dash off, leave the question unanswered, and maybe go save someone or put some bad guy to bed, or even go to bed with said bad guy.
He could still probably save himself, if he thinks fast, because the call's apparently not coming (at least not yet, and the night is still younger than either of them) and the question's still out there, and he's still pressing his erection into Bruce Wayne's thigh, just sort of resting it there when, God help him, he wants to do more.
"It's... unnatural." Bruce, who always knows what to say, had to think a bit to find that word, his voice going very deep, a little hard, a little brittle.
Unnatural. Un. Natural. Terry laughs before he can stop himself. "And you would be the one to define what's natural?"
Bruce's eyebrow goes up, a thing usually as satisfying as the smile Terry knows he's not going to get, and Bruce shifts his stance just enough that Terry's hard-on is suddenly bumping right up against Bruce's... erection. Um... yeah. That's exactly what that is.
Terry gasps again and can't help it. He thrusts against Bruce, feeling giddy—the drinks at work, and fear. And maybe a little happiness. It's been awhile, so he's not sure. But he knows what another man's cock feels like pressed up against his own—symmetry and pleasure— knows it as something he and Dana never quite had—and he knows what it feels like to get to this point and what comes next, if you're lucky.
He brings a hand up to slip just inside Bruce's jacket, pressing it flat against his chest, deeper and broader than his own, feeling Bruce's heart beating through the crisp, white shirt. Steady, reassuring, scary as hell.
"This is a bad idea?" Terry did not mean that to end that on a question. He didn't even mean to say that out loud. He sounds like a girl—spends too much time with one, though he sometimes wonders if Max counts, really, not that he'd ever say that.
"Yes."
Okay. So. Not schway, but really, what did he expect? Then again, Bruce did say yes, and maybe he can take that as a general yes—a yes, go ahead with it. Because Bruce didn't say no, or stop, or don't, and he hasn't dealt the death blow, yet, and all of those seem equally possible outcomes of the situation.
"Bruce, y'know, when you think about it, I could die tomorrow, and—"
"You could die tonight."
"Point taken. Yeah, sure. But... all the more reason, don't you think?"
"Yes, I do think. Do you?"
Damn. The implication here being—and he takes longer than he should to figure it out— that Bruce thinks. While he, Terry McGinnis, doesn't. Okay. Possibly, if they were generalizing, Bruce has a point there. He's never been much of a strategist. And he knows better than to ask Bruce a rhetorical question.
"Talk me out of it, then," Terry says, considering that a good challenge issued to a man of few words, and also noting that Bruce has not shown any signs of retreating (not that he ever would.)
From a long way away, down several long, dark corridors and up, then down, two flights of stairs, Terry can hear the music still playing. Yes we're going to a party party. Yes we're going to a party party. Yes we're going to a party party.
Didn't they already play that, like twice already? Bruce and his oldies.
Thirty-five. Talk about oldies, McGinnis. He was halfway to forty now. Once, that would have seemed ancient, but that was before he'd ever met Bruce, who redefined "ancient" upward by a few decades while somehow making it seem hot.
"You've heard the story of Narcissus?"
Bruce doesn't wait for an answer, continuing, "In the Oxyrhynchus papyri discovered in 2004, archeologists found a version that predates Ovid by at least fifty years. It tells the story of a young man named Ameinias who fell in love with Narcissus. But Narcissus, cruelly spurning his affections, offers him a sword as a present before dismissing him. Ameinias then takes that sword and prays to Nemesis—"
"Wait—do I know her? Tall, dark, legs up to here—"
"—asking that Narcissus should be made to feel his pain. He then kills himself with the sword, on Narcissus' doorstep. Nemesis then grants Ameinias his wish and Narcissus falls in love with his own reflection in the water, not realizing at first that the beautiful boy he's in love with is but a shadow."
"Hey—watch who you're calling a shadow."
"Narcissus, realizing his mistake, takes a sword to himself, dying at his own hand."
"And they lived happily ever after, the end," Terry adds, feeling reckless with unspent adrenaline, endorphins, and probably sugar from the birthday cake. "So you're agreeing with me that we should unsheathe the swords and do a little thrusting because we might all die tomorrow—or, well, some of us might. Some of us are getting older by the minute, while others..."
Bruce is glaring at him, his lower lip thrusting out just a bit and the pulse at his temple beating steadily. But he doesn't take the bait.
"Or we could just stay here like this until one of us cramps up."
"You don't want to be here."
Terry frowns, because it all keeps coming down to that. But that's Wayne for you. Ignores most of what he's said the past eighteen years but that? He hears.
"I guess we're stuck with each other because I'm not going anywhere."
And that is when the signal comes in— vibrating against his thigh like a clever sex toy. Bruce backs away, gives him the space to pull it out of his pants and hovers over him as he takes a look at the message.
"An hour, at the most."
Bruce looks like he's going to argue that it's going to be three, at least, before he's rounded up and pounded down everyone who's asking for it tonight. Bruce looks like he's going to point out that by the time the Batman hauls his sorry self back to the cave, he's going to be too sore to get it up.
But Terry just looks at him and points out, silently, without words, that Bruce will just have to peel Terry right down to his birthday suit and rub him all over until the pain goes away.
Bruce's eyes shut and when he opens them, Terry can tell that he's won that argument, finally, and it damn well took long enough. He's earned the right to celebrate. Later.
"Don't die."
Bruce says it softly, but it isn't a request, and Terry stumbles out into the hall before picking up the pace, not looking back.
He changes, shivering in the damp cave, trading one suit for another, and he wonders what might happen if Terry McGinnis did die tonight.
Not sure if you want me or the Batman? Too late. Made the choice for you.
Take that, Mr. Wayne.
Take that.
Problem is, would Bruce actually let him go?
Or would he insist on bringing the Batman back from the edge like he always has before, breathless and tense and just this side of satisfied?
—FIN—
© 2006
Thanks to Perpetual Motion for the beta and enthusiasm!
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