Partner

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Dick asks, entering Lieutenant Wilson's office and ignoring whoever's sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He's old and his leg's acting up today so he's cranky, so it doesn't really matter to him that he's interrupting their conversation. Besides, he'd been called into the office, away from his work.

The lieutenant's been here long enough that he doesn't startle at being called "sir" by someone who probably should have retired years ago. Would have, too, if he wasn't every bit as much of a workaholic as all the other former Bats. What do people even do when they aren't working as many hours as physically possible (or at least as many hours as they're allowed to) in a day? If he had the answer to that one… "New partner. Richard Grayson, Matt McGinnis."

"It's Dick," he says automatically, before the name can register, and then he blinks as he shakes McGinnis's hand. He hadn't realized how little he'd been paying attention to what's going on with the newest Bats, but apparently it's little enough that this one has become a detective and moved to Blüdhaven without him knowing.

"Grayson will show you the ropes," Wilson says, sounding exactly like any of the lieutenants he'd had over the years. Any except for Amy, though perhaps the distinction is completely subjective.

"I'm looking forward to working with you," McGinnis says in a creditable impression of an eager rookie, but he's neither done a lot of undercover work nor spent a great amount of time in Bruce's presence, and certainly not before he dropped most of the act, so the signs are there for Dick to read.

At this point the Blüdhaven Police Department is looking for any excuse to get rid of him, so they can lower the insurance premiums or something (Dick's never been too clear on the reasoning, it's not like there isn't enough crime to go around, after all), so he pretends he doesn't see it. "Likewise. So, to work, unless there's something more-?"

"No, no, go ahead," Wilson waves them out of his office.

"Your desk," Dick says, pointing to the desk pushed up against his. It's empty except for the computer monitor and the overflow from his desk. No matter how long the "paperless office" has been pushed, his desk has only become a little bit less cluttered than it had been in the early years. There's a visceral difference between working with files on a screen and having them there, in your hands, getting coffee stains when you set your cup down in the wrong spot after a long day's work, rotating the crime scene photos so they make the most sense. "Shove those back on my desk and grab one to work on; I'll get us coffee."

"I can do that," McGinnis says, and it's really obvious that he'd only gotten into the game after Bruce's death because there's no way Bruce would have let him go through life without training him out of his instinct to try to pamper people just because they use canes and are old.

"If I thought I'd have a problem I wouldn't have said I'd do it," he growls, and McGinnis shrinks back because he's used to a different Batman than Bruce.

The coffee here isn't the same swill it is at most police stations (he knows; he's been to enough of them, sharing information and working together) because after a few years of putting up with it he'd quietly started making sure it was always stocked with the good stuff and that none of the coffeemakers were malfunctioning badly enough to change the taste. There's nothing he can do about people not changing the filter, but it's as good as he can do. And it's better than bringing his own thermoses (thermosi?) of coffee.

Amusingly, there is a mug here that has a robin on it (apparently it's from sort of wild bird museum or whatever it's called), so he fills that one for McGinnis as a joke McGinnis won't know he's in on. His mug was painted by Jody a couple of years ago, with all of the former Robins and subtle (he doesn't think McGinnis will notice) Robin theming.

This isn't the first time he's had to carry things with both of his hands since he'd gotten the cane, so he has a system worked out. His cane, when taken apart, fits in his pocket well enough that it won't fall out, and if he walks slowly enough it won't hurt too much more than it already does. His life has been a negotiation for less pain for far too long.

McGinnis seems to have learned his lesson, at least for the moment, because he doesn't fawn over Dick, or walk over to take his coffee from him, or anything. His lips quirk at his mug, and he oohs at Dick's. Dick's used to that reaction; Jody is a very successful professional artist for a reason.

"My niece painted it," he says proudly.

"Your niece?" McGinnis asks, half politely and half with actual interest.

"Adoptively, sort of. She has an exhibition in Blüdhaven this week if you want to meet her." Dick hands McGinnis one of the brochures he keeps a stack of on his desk. Jody being successful is nothing new, but that doesn't keep him from being proud every time he sees her work or hears it mentioned.

"Your niece is Jody?" McGinnis says incredulously. She goes by just her first name, professionally. "We learned about her in art class." Probably in the Cave, too, considering her powers, even if she'd never been even tempted to follow in her father's footsteps. She's too powerful for any of the Bats who are still Bats to consider doing anything other than monitoring her.

"She's a talented woman." Dick can't keep the smile off of his face. "So what do you say? Want to go to the exhibition tomorrow?"

"Yeah, that'd be great."

They work for the rest of the shift, and don't stay overtime even though there's always more work to do, because there's nothing urgent. Dick takes a few file folders of cases, even though they aren't supposed to do that, aren't supposed to work on cases in their free time, because his stack at home is starting to get low. It isn't like he's taking anything unique, anything that isn't duplicated at least three other places for redundancy. After so long, everybody's used to, and grateful for, the files which "mysteriously" appear on their desks when nobody's watching, crammed with post it notes in handwriting which has nothing in common with Dick's (not that everybody doesn't know it's him, anyway, but changing his handwriting gives him some plausible deniability).

That night, after dark, he watches out his window to where he knows the bad (or at least, even worse than most of the others) parts of the city are. If he watches in the right places (he knows exactly where they are, even after so long) he can see the pinpoint of light that means boot rockets.

He doesn't know if the smile on his face is happy or sad.