See Epilogue for required info. Hope you all enjoy!!! Char and Tammy :-)
Chapter Two: Haunted Pasts
* * *
That night, Terry took his time suiting up in the cave. Bruce attempted to ignore him. He sat at the huge computer, working on the details of tonight's tasks.
"So, uh, what's the deal with my grandmother," he asked finally.
Bruce didn't even pause or flinch. He just continued on with what he had been doing, transferring files into the Car's computers.
"Come on--you know her, she knows you--she knows about the intimate details of my after school job…" Not even THAT made him acknowledge that Terry was talking. Terry decided it was time for a new tactic to get him riled up and spilling the beans. "So--what'd you do, like love her and leave her?"
"There is a warehouse on Adams that is getting a shipment--"
"Duh, hello? Bruce! My grandmother knows I'm Batman, and she's not really happy, and she said she's gonna get me out of the suit one way or another because she's REALLY pissed off at you about something. Feel like ponying up with me?" This was getting really frustrating.
"Terrance, don't interrupt me. Is getting a shipment of components used in the manufacture of nano-technology. Commissioner Bertinelli is expecting trouble. I want you to be there."
Terry pulled the mask over his face. "Yeah, sure, right. I'm on it, boss." Terry knew he wasn't getting anywhere tonight. Not with Bruce anyways.
* * *
Three hours, six fights, two sprays of gunfire and a sharp concussion later, Batman wearily let himself in through Max's bedroom window. "Max," he whispered in his best Bat-voice. "Hey, wake up."
Max groaned. He hated waking her up. He cherished his own sleep too much to lightly stand for interfering with others. "Go away, Ter."
Behind the mask, Terry rolled his eyes and grabbed her shoulder. "Max… if you help me, there'll be a shiny glazed doughnut in it for you."
She sat up and stared at him discriminately. "If you think doughnuts are a girl's best friend, you got another thing coming to you. What's up?"
"Need some help digging up info on my family."
"The family tree stuff was like LAST semester, Terry. 'Sides. The old guy's computer's gotta be better for that than mine." She hugged her pillow to her, then rolled over, closing her eyes.
Batman didn't leave. "I'm serious. And I can't do this in the Cave. There's some kind of weird thing between my grandmother and Mr. Wayne. She's all weird about it, she KNOWS, and Bruce ignores me like I'm not even talking. I HAVE to know what's going on. She's threatening to pull me out of the suit, by any means possible. And you didn't see the look in her eyes."
Max threw off the covers and got up, grabbing the laptop out of her opened book bag and putting it on her desk. "And I thought MY family was a soap opera."
"It's beyond soap opera. It's realm of the weird."
He stared over her shoulder as she began searching for leads in the dark recesses of the first decade of the century. They looked his grandmother up by the name they knew her by-Ann Marie Price. What a nice, common name she had, Terry realized suddenly.
Max found her records from this century on. That meant, from her mid- twenties until now, Ann Price existed. Before that? Nothing.
"Ok," Terry said, getting an idea. "Lets do this. Lets search on Bruce Wayne and his acquaintances, from this date back." He pointed to the date on the screen that
they'd established was the first known trace of his grandmother under the name he knew her by now.
"You're getting good at this. What do you need ME for?"
"Moral support?" he asked lamely.
Max stopped typing after a minute, frustrated. "Do you know how MANY instances of Bruce Wayne there are in press archives? DETAILS, Terry."
"Look for the name Barbara. That's what he called her when he first saw her." He felt so close, yet so far away from the answer. "And something about a funeral."
She wasn't completely pacified, but Max went back to typing. "Well, that helped. Take a look at this."
He leaned over her, his chest practically against her back. The article certainly did fit the bill. "Double funeral for a Timothy Drake and a Richard-Dick Grayson." His memory trailed back to the DG sown into a tuxedo jacket he'd borrowed once. "'Adopted sons of Bruce Wayne'?" Creepy.
"Ok, that's the funeral she left town after. Now we have to find out where she fits in."
"That's easy." She clicked on another headline from a few days later.
He put his arm on the edge of the desk, as if getting closer to the monitor would help him cope better. Terry read it out loud, trying to get a grasp on his grandmother's real history. ""Daughter of Commissioner James Gordon Missing. Gordon Hopefully Optimistic.'"
"Apparently, she and Grayson were an item." Max pointed to another article, and then scrolled through it quickly. Her gaze went from the screen to her hand on the mouse, then to Terry's hand, which sat next to hers on the desk. She followed his arm up to his chest, which was about two inches from her head. "Personal space, boy-o."
Terry stood up, put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "He had kids? And they're like… dead? And that Dick guy was--"
"Don't mean to interrupt your revelation here, but tell me something. What's your mom's birth year?"
Terry smacked himself upside the cowl. "Mom's that Grayson guy's kid. THAT is why she left town. He died and she was pregnant with my mom. So why's she so bitter?"
Max turned around in her chair to look at him. "Terry… that year is also the last time Robin, Nightwing AND Batgirl were reported seen."
"Oh crap."
* * *
When Terry came back in his own window, his grandmother was sitting on the bed, waiting for him. "I didn't think it would take you THIS long to figure it out. Either you're lazy, or he's not training them like he used to."
Terry frowned, pulling the mask off of his face. "You sound like HIM."
"Don't EVER say that."
"What's your beef anyway?" Ever so slowly, he pulled the top off of his sore torso, then began searching for a half-clean t-shirt.
"HE is the reason your grandfather is dead."
"HOW?" Terry refused to believe it. Wayne was overly methodical, but he wasn't a killer and wouldn't endanger his own kids.
The door opened. "Terry, you leave your grandmother alone." Busted by mom.
"I want the rest of the story," Terry said cheerfully. "Sorry for bugging you tonight for it." He could play this double-meaning game too, he decided. He rose from the bed beside her and followed his mother out the door. "She was up, I swear," he muttered when his mother closed the door and glared at him.
"I'm not sure what game you are all playing, but it's not very funny."
"TRUST me, mom. I don't think it's very funny either."
* * *
"Total freak job," Terry informed Max as he closed his locker.
"You're taking it personally," Max said objectively.
Terry wearily leaned against his locker. He was used to being tired. He wasn't used to being emotionally exhausted. "She accused him of killing my grandfather. I mean, I'm not supposed to get personal over that? And the freaky weirdness of it is that makes HIM my great-grandfather."
"Ok. Yeah, that is weird. But what can you do, if neither of them are willing to talk about it, and neither of them are interested in working it out?" Max clutched her books to her chest protectively. She hated going into these 'family' things. Living alone-she just wasn't good at it. "Oh no," she said, seeing that look in his eye. "I'm done. Your minutes ran out on my side-kicking services on this one."
"Max! You're always like 'I want in' and now you're going cold on me cause it's personal? I have to find out about the case he had them working on. What got them killed. I gotta know why she's so bitter."
"Ugg. Great time to get bitten by the detective bug."
The bell rang. As usual, Terry was late.
* * *
"What the hell am I doing here again?" Terry asked himself out loud. "Oh yeah, spying on my employer who can probably kick my ass into the next century."
Terry silently moved through the hall toward Wayne Manor's master bedroom. He knew where it was. But he had never been inside. The closest he had ever come was when He helped Bruce to the door one night after things had been a little rough with Inque. "Okay, okay, McGinnis, Inque kicked your ass and the old man came in and saved you. But it took a lot outta him. Wearing that armour-plated Batsuit." He laughed, "She asked if you were my grandfather. Who knew?"
Trying the door, Terry found it was locked. Undeterred, he pulled out a lock pick and jimmied the lock. The door opened easily. Too easy to have been the old man's. Shouldn't there have been blaring alarms, red lights, trap doors or something? Entering the large room, he looked around. Terry didn't know where to begin, didn't know what he was looking for. But he knew he had to find it, whatever it was.
"This is creepy," he said as he opened a dresser drawer before quickly slamming it back. Good thing Bruce was at his doctor's appointment. It gave Terry some time to do the detective thing. "Does one guy need all that room?" he thought as he moved toward the largest bed he'd ever seen. A framed photograph on the nightstand caught his eye.
He moved over and lifted it. The man in the middle was obviously the old guy -- but when he was a LOT younger. The piercing blue eyes, the stubborn unyielding
chin, and the half-smile were the same. The young kid had to be that Tim guy Terry and Max had read about. He didn't look more than fourteen -- fifteen max—in this photo. Terry's eyes then fell on the third person in the photograph. That had to be Dick Grayson. "My grandfather."
Grandma Ann -- or is it Barbara -- never talked about him, not even with Terry's mother. And they had never seen his picture before. Terry sat on the side of
Bruce's bed and stared at the features of the young man in the photograph. His hair was so black and his eyes so blue. Terry could see a resemblance. He always
wondered where his hair and eyes came from -- his mom and Grandma being redheads with green eyes and his Dad's family all had brown hair and hazel eyes.
Guess the Grayson gene was showing up in him. His grandfather had a great smile. It was infectious.
"Who were you? What were you like?" Terry asked pensively, moving from talking to himself to talking to the man in the picture.
The chiming clock drew Terry out of the musings he was beginning. Bruce would be getting home soon. "And if I'm still here, I'm dead." Putting the frame back on the nightstand, he quickly looked around the room. In the huge walk-in closet, he found albums -- photograph albums full of pictures and newspaper articles. Who knew Wayne had a sentimental streak. Maybe he was human after all? Terry found one that included the articles he and Max had found on the computer. And articles predating the funeral one. The death announcement -- took up the front page of the old Gotham Gazette. The words stung Terry, although he didn't know why. "Billionaire Boys Crash & Burn: Alcohol Suspected."
Reading the article, it was clear that the authorities thought his grandfather had been drinking and driving and crashed a really expensive sports car on the winding road leading from the manor to the city. Terry never knew Dick Grayson, never heard anyone talk about him, but Dick Grayson was Nightwing. He knew that. And he knew he wouldn't drink and drive. He had died fighting in the night -- doing what they do. And this was how Bruce had protected the family secret. It was – it seemed -- wrong.
Taking the album with him, he snuck out of the room, relocking the door behind him. Terry moved down the hall, opening the second door to the right. This had been the room Bruce went into to get the tuxedo he let Terry borrow. The one with the initials "D.G." Terry hadn't been allowed to enter the room. He changed in an upstairs bathroom. What secrets did the room hold?
Opening the door, he noticed the circus posters on the wall. Framed photographs of Bruce and a boy not even Matt's age; of his grandparents -- he knew it was them -- no one had to tell him. Looking around the room, he saw leather bound book in a chair by the window. Terry picked it up and thumbed through it. The handwriting didn't seem like what he would have thought his grandfather's handwriting would be. It was -- neat.
Sitting in the chair, he started reading.
It was a journal -- Alfred Pennyworth's journal. He read through it. It seemed as if this journal was something this Alfred guy kept -- probably one for each year. This one covered the year Grayson and Drake died -- 2002. He flipped up until he found the dates surrounding the day his grandfather died.
The hand that wrote the entry on that day was uneven and shaky—which didn't seem like that guy at all.
The day I've feared for these many years has arrived. And the tragedy is compounded, for rather than losing one of my charges, I have lost two. My hand shakes as I write this, but I know I must continue. Master Dick and Master Tim are dead, and I fear that Master Bruce shall be swallowed by his grief.
Master Bruce called me when he found the bodies. His voice shook as he gave me the terrible news and the instructions that I need to follow. Had I not known him all his life, I would not have detected the emotion in his voice. But it was there. And the sound of it broke my heart as much as the words he said. I'll never forget his words -- "Nightwing and Robin are down. They -- their -- dead." Then he gave me my instructions and he said "They were together." And his communication ended.
Terry's own eyes misted. He knew what had happened. His grandfather had gone up against something more horrible than Terry had EVER faced as Batman—and he'd not come back. It was a few moments before he could continue reading, and even then, for the sake of his own emotions, he had to temporarily abandon entire passages.
Master Bruce gently moved Master Dick and Master Tim's bodies from the plane and onto beds in the medical wing of the cave. Silently he stood between them. I hated to speak -- to interrupt his time with them -- but it had to be done. I told him that I had Master Dick's Jaguar XK Coupe loaded onto the wrecker and was prepared to create the accident scene. I asked if he wanted me to change them into their street clothes. His reply, as with everything with Bruce, was concise. But the meaning and the pain spoke volumes -- "No. That's my responsibility. They're my ... mine."
Bruce would never speak that again. He holds his heart close -- closed would be more accurate. Very few people could enter it. Tonight he lost them both. How he will endure, I have no idea ....
Quickly, Terry turned the page. His grandmother couldn't possibly still think—who knew what she thought? Or why? There had to be some reason why she hated him so much—something that had happened.
He glanced through two pages of hastily scrawled text; past the account of making funeral arrangements and an intricate portrait of the foods he'd prepared—all things the boys had liked—and the loving care he'd taken in doing the last thing he could possibly do for the two boys that had been his grandsons. Meanwhile, Bruce had done what Bruce does; he withdrew into himself.
Just when he thought he wasn't going to get any real answers, mixed within the old man's grief, he found an answer that sickened him. It hurt him that two people he cared about could do such a thing to each other.
The funeral for Masters Dick and Tim was held this morning. Stoically, Master Bruce withstood it. It surprises me how he manages to go on, to survive. His pain is private -- bottled deep within him. I fear it will never surface, and that will be his undoing.
Miss Barbara stayed after the funeral. After the other mourners had left. Stayed and followed Master Bruce into the cave. That was when it became -- unpleasant. They argued. No, arguing isn't the proper term. They vented their anger at each other, their rage over the young masters' death exploding. Miss Barbara blamed Master Bruce for sending them after the Joker alone! Master Bruce blamed Miss Barbara for not going with them! She screamed at him. He coldly and quietly fumed at her.
Miss Barbara was very hurt and very angry when she left. I followed her to Master Dick's room. She gathered a few items, items I knew Master Dick would want her to have. Master Dick would have wanted her to have everything. I remember her face when she looked at me -- such utter pain and despair and hopelessness. It was more than a death she suffered, her entire world had ended. Looking me in the eye, she simply said "Good-bye Alfred," and walked out of his room and out of the Manor -- for what I fear was forever. ...
With all the speed he could muster, Terry scanned the next four pages, coming to an entry two days after the funeral. It explained more than Terry ever wanted to know. Was there anything at all he could do to fix this situation that had ravaged out of control for nearly forty years?
Reports of Miss Barbara's disappearance filled the Gotham Gazette this afternoon. Master Bruce has combed the city searching for her to no avail. His report to me tonight was that, in his opinion Miss Barbara had left and was purposefully hiding her whereabouts from all of us. He stated he intended to continue the search. Commissioner Gordon feared that she had done more than that. Feared she had joined Dick. I pray that Master Bruce is right. ...
"McGinnis! What are you doing in here? Get out!" Wayne's voice boomed at the door. Terry dropped the journal and stood looking at the original Batman. Oh yeah, he looked old and leaned against the cane. He was sneaky. He liked to lull you into a false sense of security before beating the crap outta you. BUT he was the Original Batman, the FEAR the bad guys of Gotham still had. Terry stood and stared into the old pair of blue eyes. His own boring into the older man. He wasn't scared, he was Batman now.
"It's my family too. I have a right--"
Terry stopped mid-sentence when the old man lifted his cane. The old guy wouldn't hit him? Would he?
The cane came smashing down upon the nightstand, then pushed everything from it. A lamp, two journals, a clock and a small decorative bowl smashed onto the ground "Get. Out."
Instinct told Terry to do what the old man wanted. He was pissed. "No," Terry said calmly. "Cause if I leave, you're just going to shut EVERYONE out again."
Bruce's hand fell heavily on the nightstand and he tossed across the room, barely missing Terry. It was of good construction, but could not withstand the abuse it had been issued. Hitting the wall on the opposing side of the room, it shattered.
"Feel better?" Terry asked angrily.
"You have NO idea how I feel," the old man ground out. "How dare you—I told you these rooms are off-limits. How DARE you touch his things? THEIR things."
"WHY?" Terry spat out. It's not like YOU touch them!"
More objects went flying across the room—so fast that Terry had no idea what they were.
"IS that why you keep everything like this? So you can come in here and pretend like they're not gone? Like nothing's happened?" Terry regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth, but he couldn't take it back. All of his life, he'd been acting, then thinking. That was what had gotten him the job of Batman.
Bruce stepped close to him. An inch away from his face, in fact. The old man's face was gray, but his eyes were fiery. His jaw was set fury. "Get. OUT." Roughly, he grabbed Terry by the arm and thrust him towards the door. "And don't bother coming back."
….Continued in part three
Chapter Two: Haunted Pasts
* * *
That night, Terry took his time suiting up in the cave. Bruce attempted to ignore him. He sat at the huge computer, working on the details of tonight's tasks.
"So, uh, what's the deal with my grandmother," he asked finally.
Bruce didn't even pause or flinch. He just continued on with what he had been doing, transferring files into the Car's computers.
"Come on--you know her, she knows you--she knows about the intimate details of my after school job…" Not even THAT made him acknowledge that Terry was talking. Terry decided it was time for a new tactic to get him riled up and spilling the beans. "So--what'd you do, like love her and leave her?"
"There is a warehouse on Adams that is getting a shipment--"
"Duh, hello? Bruce! My grandmother knows I'm Batman, and she's not really happy, and she said she's gonna get me out of the suit one way or another because she's REALLY pissed off at you about something. Feel like ponying up with me?" This was getting really frustrating.
"Terrance, don't interrupt me. Is getting a shipment of components used in the manufacture of nano-technology. Commissioner Bertinelli is expecting trouble. I want you to be there."
Terry pulled the mask over his face. "Yeah, sure, right. I'm on it, boss." Terry knew he wasn't getting anywhere tonight. Not with Bruce anyways.
* * *
Three hours, six fights, two sprays of gunfire and a sharp concussion later, Batman wearily let himself in through Max's bedroom window. "Max," he whispered in his best Bat-voice. "Hey, wake up."
Max groaned. He hated waking her up. He cherished his own sleep too much to lightly stand for interfering with others. "Go away, Ter."
Behind the mask, Terry rolled his eyes and grabbed her shoulder. "Max… if you help me, there'll be a shiny glazed doughnut in it for you."
She sat up and stared at him discriminately. "If you think doughnuts are a girl's best friend, you got another thing coming to you. What's up?"
"Need some help digging up info on my family."
"The family tree stuff was like LAST semester, Terry. 'Sides. The old guy's computer's gotta be better for that than mine." She hugged her pillow to her, then rolled over, closing her eyes.
Batman didn't leave. "I'm serious. And I can't do this in the Cave. There's some kind of weird thing between my grandmother and Mr. Wayne. She's all weird about it, she KNOWS, and Bruce ignores me like I'm not even talking. I HAVE to know what's going on. She's threatening to pull me out of the suit, by any means possible. And you didn't see the look in her eyes."
Max threw off the covers and got up, grabbing the laptop out of her opened book bag and putting it on her desk. "And I thought MY family was a soap opera."
"It's beyond soap opera. It's realm of the weird."
He stared over her shoulder as she began searching for leads in the dark recesses of the first decade of the century. They looked his grandmother up by the name they knew her by-Ann Marie Price. What a nice, common name she had, Terry realized suddenly.
Max found her records from this century on. That meant, from her mid- twenties until now, Ann Price existed. Before that? Nothing.
"Ok," Terry said, getting an idea. "Lets do this. Lets search on Bruce Wayne and his acquaintances, from this date back." He pointed to the date on the screen that
they'd established was the first known trace of his grandmother under the name he knew her by now.
"You're getting good at this. What do you need ME for?"
"Moral support?" he asked lamely.
Max stopped typing after a minute, frustrated. "Do you know how MANY instances of Bruce Wayne there are in press archives? DETAILS, Terry."
"Look for the name Barbara. That's what he called her when he first saw her." He felt so close, yet so far away from the answer. "And something about a funeral."
She wasn't completely pacified, but Max went back to typing. "Well, that helped. Take a look at this."
He leaned over her, his chest practically against her back. The article certainly did fit the bill. "Double funeral for a Timothy Drake and a Richard-Dick Grayson." His memory trailed back to the DG sown into a tuxedo jacket he'd borrowed once. "'Adopted sons of Bruce Wayne'?" Creepy.
"Ok, that's the funeral she left town after. Now we have to find out where she fits in."
"That's easy." She clicked on another headline from a few days later.
He put his arm on the edge of the desk, as if getting closer to the monitor would help him cope better. Terry read it out loud, trying to get a grasp on his grandmother's real history. ""Daughter of Commissioner James Gordon Missing. Gordon Hopefully Optimistic.'"
"Apparently, she and Grayson were an item." Max pointed to another article, and then scrolled through it quickly. Her gaze went from the screen to her hand on the mouse, then to Terry's hand, which sat next to hers on the desk. She followed his arm up to his chest, which was about two inches from her head. "Personal space, boy-o."
Terry stood up, put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "He had kids? And they're like… dead? And that Dick guy was--"
"Don't mean to interrupt your revelation here, but tell me something. What's your mom's birth year?"
Terry smacked himself upside the cowl. "Mom's that Grayson guy's kid. THAT is why she left town. He died and she was pregnant with my mom. So why's she so bitter?"
Max turned around in her chair to look at him. "Terry… that year is also the last time Robin, Nightwing AND Batgirl were reported seen."
"Oh crap."
* * *
When Terry came back in his own window, his grandmother was sitting on the bed, waiting for him. "I didn't think it would take you THIS long to figure it out. Either you're lazy, or he's not training them like he used to."
Terry frowned, pulling the mask off of his face. "You sound like HIM."
"Don't EVER say that."
"What's your beef anyway?" Ever so slowly, he pulled the top off of his sore torso, then began searching for a half-clean t-shirt.
"HE is the reason your grandfather is dead."
"HOW?" Terry refused to believe it. Wayne was overly methodical, but he wasn't a killer and wouldn't endanger his own kids.
The door opened. "Terry, you leave your grandmother alone." Busted by mom.
"I want the rest of the story," Terry said cheerfully. "Sorry for bugging you tonight for it." He could play this double-meaning game too, he decided. He rose from the bed beside her and followed his mother out the door. "She was up, I swear," he muttered when his mother closed the door and glared at him.
"I'm not sure what game you are all playing, but it's not very funny."
"TRUST me, mom. I don't think it's very funny either."
* * *
"Total freak job," Terry informed Max as he closed his locker.
"You're taking it personally," Max said objectively.
Terry wearily leaned against his locker. He was used to being tired. He wasn't used to being emotionally exhausted. "She accused him of killing my grandfather. I mean, I'm not supposed to get personal over that? And the freaky weirdness of it is that makes HIM my great-grandfather."
"Ok. Yeah, that is weird. But what can you do, if neither of them are willing to talk about it, and neither of them are interested in working it out?" Max clutched her books to her chest protectively. She hated going into these 'family' things. Living alone-she just wasn't good at it. "Oh no," she said, seeing that look in his eye. "I'm done. Your minutes ran out on my side-kicking services on this one."
"Max! You're always like 'I want in' and now you're going cold on me cause it's personal? I have to find out about the case he had them working on. What got them killed. I gotta know why she's so bitter."
"Ugg. Great time to get bitten by the detective bug."
The bell rang. As usual, Terry was late.
* * *
"What the hell am I doing here again?" Terry asked himself out loud. "Oh yeah, spying on my employer who can probably kick my ass into the next century."
Terry silently moved through the hall toward Wayne Manor's master bedroom. He knew where it was. But he had never been inside. The closest he had ever come was when He helped Bruce to the door one night after things had been a little rough with Inque. "Okay, okay, McGinnis, Inque kicked your ass and the old man came in and saved you. But it took a lot outta him. Wearing that armour-plated Batsuit." He laughed, "She asked if you were my grandfather. Who knew?"
Trying the door, Terry found it was locked. Undeterred, he pulled out a lock pick and jimmied the lock. The door opened easily. Too easy to have been the old man's. Shouldn't there have been blaring alarms, red lights, trap doors or something? Entering the large room, he looked around. Terry didn't know where to begin, didn't know what he was looking for. But he knew he had to find it, whatever it was.
"This is creepy," he said as he opened a dresser drawer before quickly slamming it back. Good thing Bruce was at his doctor's appointment. It gave Terry some time to do the detective thing. "Does one guy need all that room?" he thought as he moved toward the largest bed he'd ever seen. A framed photograph on the nightstand caught his eye.
He moved over and lifted it. The man in the middle was obviously the old guy -- but when he was a LOT younger. The piercing blue eyes, the stubborn unyielding
chin, and the half-smile were the same. The young kid had to be that Tim guy Terry and Max had read about. He didn't look more than fourteen -- fifteen max—in this photo. Terry's eyes then fell on the third person in the photograph. That had to be Dick Grayson. "My grandfather."
Grandma Ann -- or is it Barbara -- never talked about him, not even with Terry's mother. And they had never seen his picture before. Terry sat on the side of
Bruce's bed and stared at the features of the young man in the photograph. His hair was so black and his eyes so blue. Terry could see a resemblance. He always
wondered where his hair and eyes came from -- his mom and Grandma being redheads with green eyes and his Dad's family all had brown hair and hazel eyes.
Guess the Grayson gene was showing up in him. His grandfather had a great smile. It was infectious.
"Who were you? What were you like?" Terry asked pensively, moving from talking to himself to talking to the man in the picture.
The chiming clock drew Terry out of the musings he was beginning. Bruce would be getting home soon. "And if I'm still here, I'm dead." Putting the frame back on the nightstand, he quickly looked around the room. In the huge walk-in closet, he found albums -- photograph albums full of pictures and newspaper articles. Who knew Wayne had a sentimental streak. Maybe he was human after all? Terry found one that included the articles he and Max had found on the computer. And articles predating the funeral one. The death announcement -- took up the front page of the old Gotham Gazette. The words stung Terry, although he didn't know why. "Billionaire Boys Crash & Burn: Alcohol Suspected."
Reading the article, it was clear that the authorities thought his grandfather had been drinking and driving and crashed a really expensive sports car on the winding road leading from the manor to the city. Terry never knew Dick Grayson, never heard anyone talk about him, but Dick Grayson was Nightwing. He knew that. And he knew he wouldn't drink and drive. He had died fighting in the night -- doing what they do. And this was how Bruce had protected the family secret. It was – it seemed -- wrong.
Taking the album with him, he snuck out of the room, relocking the door behind him. Terry moved down the hall, opening the second door to the right. This had been the room Bruce went into to get the tuxedo he let Terry borrow. The one with the initials "D.G." Terry hadn't been allowed to enter the room. He changed in an upstairs bathroom. What secrets did the room hold?
Opening the door, he noticed the circus posters on the wall. Framed photographs of Bruce and a boy not even Matt's age; of his grandparents -- he knew it was them -- no one had to tell him. Looking around the room, he saw leather bound book in a chair by the window. Terry picked it up and thumbed through it. The handwriting didn't seem like what he would have thought his grandfather's handwriting would be. It was -- neat.
Sitting in the chair, he started reading.
It was a journal -- Alfred Pennyworth's journal. He read through it. It seemed as if this journal was something this Alfred guy kept -- probably one for each year. This one covered the year Grayson and Drake died -- 2002. He flipped up until he found the dates surrounding the day his grandfather died.
The hand that wrote the entry on that day was uneven and shaky—which didn't seem like that guy at all.
The day I've feared for these many years has arrived. And the tragedy is compounded, for rather than losing one of my charges, I have lost two. My hand shakes as I write this, but I know I must continue. Master Dick and Master Tim are dead, and I fear that Master Bruce shall be swallowed by his grief.
Master Bruce called me when he found the bodies. His voice shook as he gave me the terrible news and the instructions that I need to follow. Had I not known him all his life, I would not have detected the emotion in his voice. But it was there. And the sound of it broke my heart as much as the words he said. I'll never forget his words -- "Nightwing and Robin are down. They -- their -- dead." Then he gave me my instructions and he said "They were together." And his communication ended.
Terry's own eyes misted. He knew what had happened. His grandfather had gone up against something more horrible than Terry had EVER faced as Batman—and he'd not come back. It was a few moments before he could continue reading, and even then, for the sake of his own emotions, he had to temporarily abandon entire passages.
Master Bruce gently moved Master Dick and Master Tim's bodies from the plane and onto beds in the medical wing of the cave. Silently he stood between them. I hated to speak -- to interrupt his time with them -- but it had to be done. I told him that I had Master Dick's Jaguar XK Coupe loaded onto the wrecker and was prepared to create the accident scene. I asked if he wanted me to change them into their street clothes. His reply, as with everything with Bruce, was concise. But the meaning and the pain spoke volumes -- "No. That's my responsibility. They're my ... mine."
Bruce would never speak that again. He holds his heart close -- closed would be more accurate. Very few people could enter it. Tonight he lost them both. How he will endure, I have no idea ....
Quickly, Terry turned the page. His grandmother couldn't possibly still think—who knew what she thought? Or why? There had to be some reason why she hated him so much—something that had happened.
He glanced through two pages of hastily scrawled text; past the account of making funeral arrangements and an intricate portrait of the foods he'd prepared—all things the boys had liked—and the loving care he'd taken in doing the last thing he could possibly do for the two boys that had been his grandsons. Meanwhile, Bruce had done what Bruce does; he withdrew into himself.
Just when he thought he wasn't going to get any real answers, mixed within the old man's grief, he found an answer that sickened him. It hurt him that two people he cared about could do such a thing to each other.
The funeral for Masters Dick and Tim was held this morning. Stoically, Master Bruce withstood it. It surprises me how he manages to go on, to survive. His pain is private -- bottled deep within him. I fear it will never surface, and that will be his undoing.
Miss Barbara stayed after the funeral. After the other mourners had left. Stayed and followed Master Bruce into the cave. That was when it became -- unpleasant. They argued. No, arguing isn't the proper term. They vented their anger at each other, their rage over the young masters' death exploding. Miss Barbara blamed Master Bruce for sending them after the Joker alone! Master Bruce blamed Miss Barbara for not going with them! She screamed at him. He coldly and quietly fumed at her.
Miss Barbara was very hurt and very angry when she left. I followed her to Master Dick's room. She gathered a few items, items I knew Master Dick would want her to have. Master Dick would have wanted her to have everything. I remember her face when she looked at me -- such utter pain and despair and hopelessness. It was more than a death she suffered, her entire world had ended. Looking me in the eye, she simply said "Good-bye Alfred," and walked out of his room and out of the Manor -- for what I fear was forever. ...
With all the speed he could muster, Terry scanned the next four pages, coming to an entry two days after the funeral. It explained more than Terry ever wanted to know. Was there anything at all he could do to fix this situation that had ravaged out of control for nearly forty years?
Reports of Miss Barbara's disappearance filled the Gotham Gazette this afternoon. Master Bruce has combed the city searching for her to no avail. His report to me tonight was that, in his opinion Miss Barbara had left and was purposefully hiding her whereabouts from all of us. He stated he intended to continue the search. Commissioner Gordon feared that she had done more than that. Feared she had joined Dick. I pray that Master Bruce is right. ...
"McGinnis! What are you doing in here? Get out!" Wayne's voice boomed at the door. Terry dropped the journal and stood looking at the original Batman. Oh yeah, he looked old and leaned against the cane. He was sneaky. He liked to lull you into a false sense of security before beating the crap outta you. BUT he was the Original Batman, the FEAR the bad guys of Gotham still had. Terry stood and stared into the old pair of blue eyes. His own boring into the older man. He wasn't scared, he was Batman now.
"It's my family too. I have a right--"
Terry stopped mid-sentence when the old man lifted his cane. The old guy wouldn't hit him? Would he?
The cane came smashing down upon the nightstand, then pushed everything from it. A lamp, two journals, a clock and a small decorative bowl smashed onto the ground "Get. Out."
Instinct told Terry to do what the old man wanted. He was pissed. "No," Terry said calmly. "Cause if I leave, you're just going to shut EVERYONE out again."
Bruce's hand fell heavily on the nightstand and he tossed across the room, barely missing Terry. It was of good construction, but could not withstand the abuse it had been issued. Hitting the wall on the opposing side of the room, it shattered.
"Feel better?" Terry asked angrily.
"You have NO idea how I feel," the old man ground out. "How dare you—I told you these rooms are off-limits. How DARE you touch his things? THEIR things."
"WHY?" Terry spat out. It's not like YOU touch them!"
More objects went flying across the room—so fast that Terry had no idea what they were.
"IS that why you keep everything like this? So you can come in here and pretend like they're not gone? Like nothing's happened?" Terry regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth, but he couldn't take it back. All of his life, he'd been acting, then thinking. That was what had gotten him the job of Batman.
Bruce stepped close to him. An inch away from his face, in fact. The old man's face was gray, but his eyes were fiery. His jaw was set fury. "Get. OUT." Roughly, he grabbed Terry by the arm and thrust him towards the door. "And don't bother coming back."
….Continued in part three
