Funerals were never fun. They hurt, they were made for the living, but they only ever tortured them, and they were filled with people you didn’t like, giving you words of condolences you didn’t want to hear. 

Dick had been to too many funerals in his twenty years of life. He had buried his parents, his brother, and his friends, his colleagues and acquaintances and he’d witnessed the death of countless strangers on the street . And now he was burying his second father. 

Bruce had died as Batman on a League mission, defeated by Darkseid, sacrificing himself to save them all. Bruce had died on a skiing trip to the Netherlands. 

“BILLIONAIRE BRUCE WAYNE DEAD: TRAGEDY AWAY FROM HOME”

“BRUCIE WAYNE ONLY SURVIVED BY ESTRANGED WARD RICHARD GRAYSON”

“ONE DEATH AFTER THE OTHER: ARE THE WAYNES CURSED?”

And now Dick was left as the last one standing. Alfred was inconsolable, even if his stiff British upper lip barely allowed for a stray tear to escape, and Tim was shocked beyond his years. It was the first death the teenager experienced that left such an emotional impact - his parents were alive, after all, his career as Robin still in its infancy. 

Dick had to be their rock now. 

And he was trying his best. He really was. He organized the funeral. Both funerals, really. He sat down writing list after list, talking to the city officials and grief counselors and funeral parlors, making sure that everything would go smoothly on the day he didn’t want to think about. It was him who made sure that everyone who needed to be here, was here. There was a seat for Selina and one for Diana Price. Clark Kent was the only reporter allowed to cover the ceremony and Dick made sure to make room for Oliver Queen mourning his boarding school buddy. 

But what about Richard John Grayson?

Richard John Grayson had just inherited the biggest fortune in the world. And that without ever being officially adopted by Bruce Wayne. He was the “Wayne heir” now. Officially. He was a billionaire now. 

He was alone now. 

No part of him doubted that he would burn everything down, just to get his father back. If given the chance, Dick knew he would make the wrong choice. Bruce always claimed - used to claim, really, since he was gone now - that Dick carried some moral superiority within his soul. Dick knew that to be bullshit. Had always known that it was Bruce’s self-hatred speaking, more than anything else.

And they hadn’t even gotten along when Bruce died!

No, they had started talking again - finally! - and they’d been able to share the same room without going for each other’s throat, but their easy companionship from earlier times? Not even close.That was gone. Permanently now. It hurt that Dick would never again get a chance to mend their relationship further. He would never be able to tell Bruce that he loved him. He would never hug his dad again.

He would never again be furious at Bruce’s bullheaded stubbornness, only to laugh in the face of his dry humor. It was the small things Dick had already begun to miss.

The heartbreak was a physical pain.

The funeral itself was small by comparison. Dick had kept the number of people down, wanting it to be a family event and not a public one. A few hundred people, at most, shared the space and the grief in the ceremonial hall. In a perfect world, there would only be ten maybe twenty people here, but this was the lowest Dick managed without offending anyone.

Bruce was beloved, after all.

Dick sat in the first row closest to the casket and the podium up front, Alfred and Tim next to him. Barbara was close by too, followed by her father and the extended Kane family. In the rows further back, the Justice League in civilian disguise shared their grief with the Gotham socialites who were too important not to be invited. It was a strange mix of people who had come together to cry over the body of this man.

But then again, Bruce Wayne hadn’t just been a man. He had been a legend. Both as Bruce and as Batman. It was only justified that the world cried over him. 

Early during the planning, Dick had decided against giving a speech. He knew he would only burst into tears as soon as he took the podium. He would choke on his words, embarrassing himself and Bruce’s legacy should he even try. The hole in his chest was too deep to be filled with funeral appropriate platitudes. What was he supposed to say? That he hated Bruce, just as much as he loved him? That he didn’t know love could hurt this much? That one of the best men he would ever know was gone now, and Dick hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye? None of that would accurately portray how he felt inside. None of that would ease the grief slowly stealing his air away, as Bruce’s death turned from an eventuality into reality.

Others, though, had taken the opportunity, gray faces asking for a chance to publicly say goodbye. It was Clark who stepped up first. Dick couldn’t look him in the eyes, could barely raise his head to look at the casket, when the piercing gaze of another one of the world’s finest came to rest on him. 

“Um... hello?” Clark tapped against the microphone, the feedback loud enough to make hundreds of people cringe in their seats. It was a welcome distraction from the heavy sadness in the air. “Oh, okay.” 

Sometimes Dick wondered how a man like Superman managed to play the shy reporter Clark Kent so effortlessly and then he remembered that it was the opposite: Clark Kent acted it up for Superman. And right now he had no energy or will to do so. Right now, it wasn’t a Kryptonian warrior leading a room full of heroes, but a middle-aged man from Kansas, who’d lost his best friend.

“For those of you who don’t know, I am Clark Kent, a reporter from Metropolis. I work for the Daily Planet and some of you might – rightfully – wonder what I’m doing here. Standing here, in this place, thinking I have any right to talk about Bruce. Especially since we all know the man hated few things as much as nosy reporters. But I am more than that, more than just another media vulture ready to gut this man for one more headline, one more juicy story. And my relationship with Bruce was so much more than just the relationship between a socialite and a news reporter”

Maybe Dick should have readied a speech. Maybe he shouldn’t have forced others to do it because- because Clark was already crying, tears dripping onto the worn-down paper clutched in his giant hands. 

And Dick was crying with him, salt burning groves of sorrow into his skin.

“He was my friend. One of my dearest. One of my best. We met when I got sent to Gotham for an interview after he took in Dick. And we just... we just clicked. I think he liked how I treated his kid and I liked how much more he was than what he presented to the public. When we talked he was more than just Brucie Wayne. He was Bruce, my friend.” 

Clark interrupted himself to take a deep breath, his eyes finding a familiar face in the midst of mourners. Lois. At least she was here with him.

“He is the reason I got engaged to my wife. I remember running circles into the carpet in his study, wondering if I should do it, and then Bruce just grabbed the phone and dialed Lois’ number and told her I had an important question for her. And then he stood there and stared at me until I asked her to marry me.”

Dick remembered that too. He’d been thirteen at the time. The smile tugging at his lips at the memory felt wrong, like something out of a different time, but Dick still let it shine. He wanted these golden tinged days back. He wanted the Manor in warm colors, Alfred’s cookies, the laughter of his friends. He wanted his dad back. So, so bad.

“So, when people ask me who Bruce is – who Bruce was was – I... I often don’t know how to answer. He loved his kids, that’s for sure. Energetic Dick and studious Jason. I held him the days after Jason’s death and hadn’t I been there myself, I wouldn’t have known how deep human suffering can run. How much sadness one man can bear. So, yes, he loved his kids. He was a devoted dad. Loved them, cried for them, fought for them and with them. But he was also a difficult person, devoted to his job without fault, steadfast to a point of destruction. You can’t talk about Bruce without seeing both. Without seeing his enormous heart and his stubborn head. He liked his parties, and the woman that came with them. He loved chatting it up with people he met on the street, always trying to better the world one person at a time. I think a Buzzfeed Article once put it perfectly: Bruce Wayne is the Keanu Reeves of Gotham.”

A slight chuckle rippled through the crowd. Tears were running down dozens, no, hundreds of cheeks, each person alone and yet bound together in their grief. It was always good to remember that not everything had been grief. That there was a life outside of sorrow and darkness, outside of this room and away from this casket. A life full of coffee and stupid Buzzfeed articles, bad jokes and moments spent laughing.

“I think the point I am trying to make is… Bruce Wayne was my friend. He was a friend to many. He was a father. And a lover to others. But one thing is for certain: The world has just gotten a tiny bit darker without his presence in it. And it is on us now, to share the love and devotion he gave to us, and make the world a better place again. It is our job now, to save the world one person at a time, as he did so tirelessly, and keep him in our hearts. Bruce, we miss you.” Clark looked up, gen heaven as he uttered the last few words of his tear-soaked speech. “But don’t worry, we will take care”

With that, Clark bowed his head to the picture of Bruce that adorned the coffin before he left the podium and took his seat. The hall was silent for a moment, only disrupted by sniffles and cries. No one even dared to whisper in the reverence that kept them all in a chokehold. Dick himself had stopped wiping his tears away some time back and when he looked over at Tim, sitting alone and forlorn next to him, he saw the boy had done the same. 

It felt natural to reach out and press the small body against him. Nobody should be alone right now. Neither Tim nor Dick. 

Neither Nightwing nor Robin.

Neither man nor boy.

It was Alfred who went up next. A part of Dick wasn’t sure if he was ready for this. If he was ready to hear his grandfather tell him just how much it hurt to lose a son. Dick was strong, but not that strong. Then again, he owed it to Alfred. His own cowardice kept him from going up to the podium himself. It was only right to bear the burden of Alfred's pain. It would always be right. That’s what family was for: to share pain, and to carry it together. 

“My story starts a bit differently, I fear. My story starts with another tragedy.” Alfred’s British accent had been smoothed over by years of servitude to the Waynes, but right this second it only left more room for pain. Alfred was foreign to Gotham, an alien particle, and yet he was the one who – undoubtedly – knew Bruce the best. “It starts twenty-five years prior, at night, with a shooting in Crime Alley. It starts with me waking up to a phone call. A phone call that placed Master Bruce in my care. Because – you see – his parents had just been killed. And I was the person they had entrusted the care of their child to. And I did just that. I took care of him. I raised him. I loved him.”

Dick had never seen Alfred look so old, so defeated. He could swear there were lines on Alfred’s face that hadn’t been there two weeks prior. Still, Alfred was holding onto his composure with an iron grip. Dick could see the trembling in his hands as he held the notes for his speech, clutching them tightly, could see the glistening in the corner of his eyes, heavy with unshed tears, and yet, Alfred did not break. Had not yet broken. 

Dick feared the time he finally would.

“And I watched the child grow up, guiding him whenever I felt it was my place. I was a servant after all, the family butler. But I dare to believe that I was – that I am – so much more. Because I raised Master Bruce. I saw him get expelled and then graduate High School. I saw him travel the world and bring home his own child. I saw him struggle as I once did with raising a child and I saw him try his best, anyways. I was with him when things were hard, and I baked and cooked and cleaned to make this man - my little boy - happy. Because he was just that: My little boy.”

There was nothing in the world Dick wanted more than to run up to Alfred and offer him a tight embrace. There was nothing he wanted to do more than to reassure the man that, of course, he was family. That Bruce had loved him dearly. That they would all fall without him. That they would all fail. Every single one of them.

But Alfred kept on talking. And Dick kept on sitting, frozen in his seat by indecisiveness and grief.

“And it hurts horribly to have lost him. No parent should ever lose their kid. And even if I wasn’t Bruce’s father, I held him dear in my heart like a son. I remember how devastated I was after Young Master Jason, and how Bruce felt all of that tenfold. I couldn’t comprehend how much hurt one person could possibly feel in the face of a tragedy like that. Now I do.”

There were tears now. Alfred had broken. Finally. It was only a handful of individual drops, slowly running down the crevices of a face forged through decades of hardships and love. Each and every single one of them burned Dick’s soul and made his heart bleed. How was any one of them supposed to come back from this?  

“My child is dead. The man I raised is gone. I am never going to cook breakfast for him again or tease him about his horrible taste in men’s suits.. I am never going to give him away on the altar and I know he won’t be there to see his son grow up the way I saw him grow up. He was so terribly young. And now he will forever stay like this.”

A loud sob echoed through the ceremonial hall and it took an embarrassing long moment for Dick to realize that the noise had come from him. It was his body slowly disintegrating at the seams, only that Dick no longer had the control to swallow the hurricane of despair back down. No. He couldn’t deal with all this loss. He could barely even deal with his own.

Alfred’s pain was like a tidal wave, and Dick was powerless in the face of it.

It was Tim, who hugged him now, squeezing his waist with thin arms. Oh God, Tim - who was only thirteen and small for his age. Tim, who had lost his last baby teeth only two months ago, blushing bright red when he told Dick as such. Tim, who believed in justice and Bruce and Batman with a ferocity that was almost frightening. Tim, who was so strong for someone so tiny. A child much too small to bear Dick’s grief. 

But luckily Tim wasn’t alone. 

There was Barbara, with a handkerchief and a reassuring pat on his shoulder, ready to carry the extra burden. 

“I am sorry for my grim words. I do not wish for that to be the legacy of my speech. Because... yes, I will miss my child terribly for the rest of my days, but I will also make sure that these days are days worth living. Bruce would have wanted this and I sure as hell plan on respecting his wishes. I will keep on living. And I will make sure that his son and his dear friends and family will do the same. Because a world without Bruce might be a cruel world, but it is the one we live in now. And I will make the best out of it. I will make sure that his death is not in vain.”

There was steel in Alfred’s voice and there was fire in his eyes. Clark’s last words had been meant to strengthen the spirit, to give hope, Alfred’s had been a declaration. A war cry against grief, against the depressing darkness that wanted to claim them all.

Barbara’s hand on his shoulder, Tim’s clasped tightly in his own, Dick finally managed to quell his tears. A war cry, indeed. Dick would join Alfred in battle.

Another speech and some words by a person from the city consul Dick didn’t care enough to remember later, saw them standing next to each other at Bruce’s grave. A muddy hole on the family graveyard behind Wayne Manor, the disturbed earth fresh, the hole small when Dick compared it to the man Bruce had been. A disconcerting thought, that men like Bruce could do things as mundane as dying. Dick suppressed a shudder as he waited for the line of condolence givers to move on. 

He wanted to go home. And he didn’t even know what he meant with that anymore. His dingy Blüdhaven apartment or the lonely room in an even lonelier Manor? His heart was split in more than just one way. Alfred next to him seemed similarly lost. What a picture they were: two lost men grieving the family they never really had. Alfred hadn’t been Bruce’s father and Dick wasn’t really his son. But they were the next best thing. And all that Bruce had. 

It was Clark, who moved up next, a sad expression on his face. Grief had aged him prematurely. It was weird seeing these usually bright blue eyes so dulled by sorrow. 

“My deepest condolences, Dick, Alfred. I will do what I can. Just ask, and I’ll...”

“I know. And thank you so much for today. I couldn’t... I wasn’t able to... you know”

“Yes.”

Their conversation lulled for a moment. When their gazes met Dick understood that Clark wanted to talk, wanted to share more of Bruce than just his public persona. And Dick knew why. You couldn’t talk about Bruce and not also talk about the Batman. 

“What are you going to do now, Dick?”

“I... I’m going to move to Gotham for a bit. Until everything is settled at least. Lucius said that there are some important documents I need to take care of... stuff like that. Trying not to fall apart while I take care of everything as best as I can. The usual”

And sadly, it was their usual. Their normal. Most of the time it wasn’t one of the big heroes who died, but with their lifestyle funerals and grief were nothing new. You went to yet another ceremony dressed in black, you cried, you felt like dying inside, and then you went back to work. Put on the mask and the leather suit, kicked some ass, made some jokes, and then, when inevitably the next one of your friends died, you went looking for your black funeral garb once more. Rinse and repeat. He would try and do the same as always: Bury everything he couldn’t deal with. Mask it with a smile, make sure everyone else was doing okay.

“If you ever feel like it, call me. Please, promise me”

“Okay, Uncle Clark. I promise.”

He hadn’t called Clark “uncle” in years. But now he did and he pulled the man into a hug because he knew both of them needed this, a reminder that they would be okay. That they were still here. That they weren’t alone.

Never alone. Not really. Not as long as Clark was there, Alfred by Dick’s side, Tim here in Gotham, Barbara just a phone call away, the Titans an ever changing presence.

Even in death, the universe continued to turn.

After that the passing faces of other attendees blurred together. Tim had to go home early, since his parents were coming back from a trip overseas and wanted to see their son. Barbara and the Commissioner had gone ahead and prepared the Manor for the wake (the graveyard wasn’t compatible with her chair). With them gone and the Justice League vanishing back into obscurity, the rest of the masses were unimportant to Dick.

Just nameless shadows, people who held no claim to Dick’s (or Alfred’s) memory of Bruce.

He took their condolences, their inappropriate comments, their grief stricken faces, and forgot them again as soon as they left his field of vision. Alfred was probably doing the exact opposite, remembering every little detail to keep the thoughts away, to keep reality away. 

That was until the very last person in line came up to them.

It was an elegant lady, dressed in a fine black gown, almost too pretty for a rainy, shitty day like this, with a child tucked behind her. Dick would recognize her gait everywhere. And how could he not? He had fought with her for years, after all.

“Talia? What are you doing here? You should know that you aren’t welcome in Gotham.” His voice was biting, his body tired.

“Hello, Richard. Mr. Pennyworth.” Talia looked at them evenly. “I have just as much a right to be here than you do. Bruce was my Beloved and he will always remain so.Just because it was a love you weren’t privy to, doesn’t make it any less real or important.”

Alfred stared at her then, resignation adding another ten years to his already weary shoulders: “You are right, Miss al Ghul. But if you will excuse me? I think it is time for me to return to the Manor. There is a wake in need of some preparing. Take care.”

They all recognized it for what it was: a tactic retreat. 

And with that Dick was alone. Alone with Talia al Ghul and a child. A tiny child that hid behind Talia’s legs, only daring to look at Dick when he thought Dick wasn’t looking at him. 

Dick had a very bad feeling about this.

“It’s really not the time right now, Talia. What do you want?”

Her even features twisted then, but only for a moment. That moment was enough for Dick to see real hurt in her eyes. To see pain and love and devastation. And the cruel determination that held her together. Sometimes it was easy to forget that villains were human too. That they had feelings. That they could love. At least most of them.

“What I want, Richard, is for my Beloved to be alive and for my child to be safe. But the first is out of the question, especially since I know he would never forgive me for placing him in a Lazarus Pit” – Dick hadn’t known Talia respected Bruce enough to honor him even in death –  “and the second is dependent on you of all people!”

“What?”

Dick wasn’t keeping up. Fuck, he didn’t even know if he wanted to keep up. His mind felt dull after the last two weeks, his body desperate for sleep and maybe an evening spent with fewer tears for company.

“My child, Richard.”

With that she pushed the child in front of her. Dick had to admit the boy did look remarkably like his mother. His mother. Small, with piercing green eyes and a truly aristocratic nose, Dick could see Talia in every twitch of his lips and the frown etched between his brows. He shared his mother’s skin tone and his black hair fell into his eyes in dire need of a haircut. It was an adorable little boy, but certainly not Dick’s problem.

“Yeah, so, what? Congratulations? It seems a bit late for that. Six or seven years late, if I had to guess. Spell it out for me, Talia. Please. I am in no mood for games. Not today of all days.”

“As you wish. You see, my son Damian here is the product of the bond my Beloved and I shared. He is our child. His child. Damian, introduce yourself!”

The tiny child struck his hand out for Dick to shake. And Dick did shake it. What else was he supposed to do?

“I am Damian al Ghul Wayne, Heir of the Demon’s Head, Son of The Batman.”

Dick’s mouth went dry. What? The? Fuck? This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. Today was a day for grief, for Dick to mourn his father, not to find out that Bruce had managed to produce a kid with Talia of all people. He... how was he supposed to react? 

“Talia?”

“Damian is seven, and Father decided on some inner-League changes that I simply can’t get behind. Things are too... dangerous right now. At least for him. At least for now.”

“Talia?!”

“I wanted for him to meet his father when he was ready. Which he is not as of yet, but... his father is dead. It doesn’t matter anymore if Damian is ready. What matters is that he is safe.”

“Talia.”

“You are Batman’s prodigy. The sole surviving one, that is. I trust my Beloved to have trained you adequately. Look after him. Keep him safe. Maybe sure he grows up to be a good man. I will be back.” Talia’s intense gaze moved on from Dick - who was left speechless and without direction - to turn towards the boy. With more motherly grace than Dick had thought her capable of, Talia bent down, and pulled Damian close. “Remember what we talked about, yes? Listen carefully, hone your skills, learn and be obedient. Make me proud. Goodbye, Dear. I love you.”

With that Talia pushed the child against Dick. It was an instinctive reaction that made sure Dick caught the kid so he wouldn’t fall, stumble on the muddy grass left over from Bruce’s grave. When he tore his gaze away from the surprised green eyes of Damian , she’d said, Talia was nowhere to be seen. She had vanished into the late afternoon leaving behind her child and a grieving man.

Somehow Dick managed to get the both of them back to the Manor, shock making him numb. He couldn’t even feel the hand resting on Damian’s shoulder, guiding the child past grave after grave until the imposing stone facade of the Wayne ancestral home filled the horizon. Damian didn’t answer any of his questions, only repeating his claim to the Wayne name. If Dick didn’t know better, he would claim the boy was cold, in heart if not in body - but even in his grief Dick could see the almost compulsive way in which the boy opened and closed his fists, short nails biting into soft skin. Dammit, the kid was only seven. It should be infuriating, this inability to engage with… what the fuck, Bruce had a kid. Bruce was dead. Bruce had a child. With Talia al Ghul of all people.

Bruce had left him behind.

Who? Dick. Alfred. Tim.

Damian.

And Dick was left reeling.