The bat is Terry’s hand didn’t belong there. The way his fingers tightened around it, the way he held it, the manner in which he gazed upon the criminal in his line of sight. Everything about what he was doing and how he looked doing it was wrong. Batman, standing in the dark, observing, watching everything, didn’t like what he saw. It was twisted and done in a way that he did not approve of. And it was only just beginning.
Terry wasn’t ready to be back out there, facing down demons and vampire and criminals who were very human and very breakable in hands that could shatter and rip and tear on a whim. It was his mistake. He’d allowed him to step out alone and this was what he got for being stupid and not thinking things through. He needed time and he needed help and this was hurting the kid’s chances at ever going back to how he used to be. He needed only one last shove. One more would be enough to send him over the edge and Bruce wasn’t sure that he’d be able to pull him back up after that.
So he hurled the batarang. It cut through the air and flew passed the bat, made a clink as it brushed up against the aluminum and then crossed the distance to the wall. The batarang was Terry’s wordless command to stop what he was doing. He could have gone straight to him, could have grabbed him and yanked him away, but he gave him the benefit of the doubt, offered him the chance to right himself before he did it for him.