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Chapter 2: Chapter 1: to love life, even / when you have no stomach for it

Notes:

Peek: "He means something to you, doesn't he?"

Terry: "Yeah, he does."

(Batman Beyond)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Tim first, Terry decides. He makes his way to a nondescript part of Neo-Gotham, on the edge of the city, bordering the gated suburbs of families that still believe in the decades-old dream of white picket fences. In Gotham, for crying out loud.

He parks the bike and walks to the entrance of Tim’s building, ringing the buzzer for courtesy’s sake. Tim is old-fashioned like that.

The third Robin’s voice comes through the com. “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Drake,” Terry answers ruefully. “Terry McGinnis.”

Without another word, Terry is buzzed through and finds himself knocking at Tim Drake’s door. The man himself opens it and invites Terry in without a word, gesturing at the couch and motioning for him to take a seat.

“Tim, he’s dying.”

The second Robin snorts as he opened the refrigerator and takes out a box of milk. “You take after him in so many ways, McGinnis. Not least his dislike for social niceties.”

He turns to meet McGinnis’ knowing gaze. They are two of a handful of people in the whole world who know that socialite Bruce Wayne had actually hated socializing for most of his life. He had accepted it as an act, a necessity, whatever would build up an acceptable facade and thus allow him to dress up as a big black bat and scare Gotham’s criminals as soon as the last ballroom waltz ended. 

They had both been boys when they had to be subjected to the same instances of necessary torture, by the side of socialite Bruce Wayne and dressed in their own specially-tailored tuxedos. But they aren’t boys anymore — Terry is roughly the age of Batman at his physical prime, and Tim’s medications are growing more and more frequent. 

“I think we all did take after him in some way,” Terry says gently, although not without a smirk on his face.

Tim laughs, and in it Terry catches a glimpse of the joy of the third Robin, the one who had picked up a broken Bruce and Batman and had made him believe that he could be a father and hero again. But when he looks closer, Drake’s eyes are sad. “Yeah, tell the others that and you’ll be lucky to come back alive.”

Terry winces. “Actually, that’s kind of my plan. He asked for ‘Robin’, you know.”

Tim Drake sits across from him on the couch and averts his eyes, focusing instead on the stained coffee table between them. “He must really be dying, then,” his voice low.

“Yeah. Got any guesses as to which Robin he might be referring to?” 

Tim raises his head and looks Terry in the eye. “I’ll go watch him while you look for the others. After therapy, I—I told him what I wanted to say. What I needed to say. Everything…every goddamn piece of resentment, hate, and anger. After everything—everything he had ever done to me. To us.” Tim’s hands clench around the ceramic cup. “And he just sat there and took it, looking every inch the stoic Batman. I swear, even when he’s not wearing that goddamn cowl, he’s still wearing it.”

Terry waits. “And yet,” Tim sighs. “I loved him. I still do. We all did, you know, at some point. Maybe—maybe even until now. All of us. I’m already going because I’ve made my peace with him…the others haven’t. You’ll have to convince them that there won’t be a next time.”

Terry shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feelings of inadequacy choking his throat as he remembers Bruce’s feeble pleas for ‘Robin’ when caught in his nightmare. “Any tips?” he quips awkwardly. 

Tim looks at him again, and Terry swears there is a whole other version of the Batglare in those eyes. It must run in the family.

“Yeah. Dick still hates Bruce, Jason loves his guns, and Damian — Damian’s still a dick. Don’t kill them, and don’t die. Good luck, kid.”


Terry gets more information on Dick Grayson—Nightwing, once upon a time—through Superman. The location from the Batcomputer had indicated Metropolis, but Terry didn’t feel like combing his way through another hero’s city.

“Sure, Dick keeps in touch,” the aging Kryptonian tells him nonchalantly, leaning against the control panels of the refurbished Watchtower. Terry crosses his arms, the black cowl giving nothing away. “Calls me Uncle Clark when he needs a favor, though to tell you the truth,” Superman says, sighing as he turns towards the screen to download a map, “we ask him for more favors than the other way around.”

Terry quirks a brow. He should have known if any of the past Bat-affiliants were still working with the Justice League. Wayne Enterprises was still paying for this shtick, and while Terry had largely left the reins of the company to the Foxes’ very capable hands, he had still made it a point to know where the superhero money went. 

“He trains the young ones for us,” Clark clarifies, handing over the location to Terry. The red dot blinks ominously on his comm before he closes it with a flick of his wrist. “With one condition.”

Terry narrows his eyes further, even as trepidation builds up inside him. “You can’t seriously expect him not to know.” Not him, not the all-knowing Bruce Wayne who even now still kept tabs on all of his wayward children, even across oceans and torn bonds.

Clark chuckles dryly and throws up his hands in innocent surrender. “Yeah, that’s what I told him. But Dick was adamant. I eventually said that if Bruce ever heard about it, at least he wouldn’t hear about it from me. Seemed good enough for him.”

Terry nods as turned to walk away. “Thanks.”

“Terry.” Superman says, and Terry closes his eyes as he stops. “He’s dying, isn’t he.”

Terry takes a deep breath before he answers. “Stop by when you can,” he says, thankful that the cowl’s modulator hides the shaking of his voice. “You should see him.” Before the end.

He doesn’t wait to hear the other hero’s answer as he walked out of the tower, and he doesn’t get to see the Kryptonian cry. 


“Looks like the old man has been slacking with the training. Ever heard of situational awareness?”

Terry bristles. “Yeah? Maybe I wanted you to find me.” He turns to face his companion on the bench. Dick Grayson had kept his acrobat’s body with age, although Terry hears a few bones pop as the older man lowers himself down beside him. His hair is still raven black with white on the lower half, framing a handsome slender face with kind, unassuming eyes.

Dick gazes at Terry, and he must have found something he agreed with because his eyes soften. Terry lets out a small breath of relief. 

“Maybe you did. Still, can’t say I appreciate the visit.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not here for a social call.”

“I figured,” Dick says, standing from the bench and brushing off his coat. “Walk with me.”

“To where?”

Dick gives him an unimpressed look. “If you’re here for what I think you’re here for, then we’re going to need food.”

Dick leads him to an old-style diner, the facade out of place in the futuristic cityscape. Terry shuffles in after him. “Gotta say, I never thought I would find a Bat in Metropolis.”

Dick smirks. “Haven’t been a Bat in over twenty years, but I know what you mean. Makes a difference, being away from dreary old Gotham.”

Terry notices the mention of Gotham and not Blüdhaven, but he lets it slide. “Do you ever miss it?”

Dick eyes him. The years had not dulled his mind, Terry realizes ruefully. This was almost exactly the same Bat that had coached him through his ear during his first nights out in the suit, a kid who knew nothing better but still tried. And yet—Dick is different from Bruce. Still as hard as steel, but with a veneer of affability that the old man hadn’t bothered with. Hidden steel, hidden strength, easily underestimated at your own peril. Terry is beginning to see why the history cubes had devoted whole sections to Nightwing. 

“You’re not subtle.”

“You’re not stupid,” Terry counters, and decides to go all in. After all, it had been Barbara Gordon who told him to look this guy up for his stories. He's just taking up her suggestion years after it had been given. “What happened to the two of you?”

“What do you think?” Dick says, voice deceptively calm, and Terry can almost see the walls crashing down again in one blink. Beneath his open, affable facade, Dick Grayson is still a Bat. The first Robin gazes at him now with eyes of titanium steel, sharp and unyielding. 

Terry leans back in the cheap linoleum bench. “You wanna know what I think?”

“I get the feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.” There is still a twinkle in the other man’s eye despite the unwillingness to give anything away. The soft indulgent smile on his face makes Terry feel like he is a child, telling stories to an uncle—or an older brother. The thought makes him simultaneously more confident and more nervous. 

“I think you got sick of him. He was too controlling, wanted everything his way, and you couldn’t live with that.”

Dick gazes at him, eyes open yet shuttered, and Terry has the feeling that he has missed something. 

And then Dick smirks, the corner of his lip turning playfully upward. “Sure, if that’s what you think.” 

“Drake said that you still hate him.”

“Hate, love,” Dick says lightly, waving his hands in the air. “They’re not that different, when you think about it.”

“So you did get sick of him.”

“You’re speaking from experience, kid."

“I’m thirty years old.”

“You’re a kid to me.”

You’re changing the subject.”

The two of them eye each other over the plate of fries. Terry leans forward. “Look, Mr. Grayson—“

“Dick.”

Terry gives him a look. Things changed, but slang words didn’t change that much. The first Robin just gives a long-suffering nod back.

“Dick,” Terry amends. “Look, whatever your—conflict with Wayne was, he needs you now.”

“Needs?” Dick scoffs, crossing his arms. In his eyes, Terry sees the steel spark dangerously. “The old man has never needed anyone in his life. That’s his whole problem. He uses people, and when they step out of line, he drops them like a hot potato.”

Terry lets the old-school metaphor slide. He’d have to look that one up later. Why would people hold hot potatoes anyway?

Focus, McGinnis.  

Bruce. Always Bruce. Terry is beginning to wonder if this is how his whole life is going to be—having to settle for the voice in his head because the real one won’t be around for much longer. 

Dick is still looking at him. Terry forces himself to meet his eyes. “I get that, Dick. I do.” You have no idea how much. “But right now, he does need you.”

“There is nothing he could possibly—“

“He’s dying, Dick.” Terry states, the words rushing out of him like arrows. Across from him, Dick recoils as though he had been hit. 

“What?”

Terry looks down into the deep black of the questionable diner coffee. “He’s dying. Has been, for some time now. Nothing—unusual. The doctors say it’s just old age.”

Dick stays silent, looking outside the window. “He means something to you, doesn’t he?”

Terry doesn’t even blink. “Yeah, he does.”

A few long seconds of silence pass, and Terry sighs internally, getting up and leaving a few bills on the table. “You know where to go."

As he steps out of their booth, Dick finally turns to look at him, a deep emotion in his eyes that makes Terry ache. “And where are you going?”

Terry ignores the tone of voice that sounded so very like a team leader, readying the members for patrol. Was this what it was like, Nightwing leading the flock into the Gotham skyline? 

“Batman asked for Robin,” Terry says lowly, shrugging on his coat. “There were—are four of you, yes?”

Dick keeps his gaze locked on him, giving a nearly imperceptible nod. 

“Figures. I’ve got two down, two to go. Wish me luck.”

The door slams behind Terry, so he doesn't hear the whispered good luck lost to the diner's noise.

Notes:

To my knowledge, Old!Dick has appeared in the Batman Beyond comics, but I don't think I'm taking much characterization from his appearance there.