Author's Note: I consider this somewhat sub-standard than my usual work. However, I need to go back to my camp today and do not have the time to write an entire story from scratch. This is a story from the 'decent but not exceptional' pile on my computer. After a brutal altercation with Jonathan Crane, Bruce takes Dick to see his parents and apologize to the boy for his conduct. Enjoy.

Rose

I remember the car ride in snatches. Last night wasn't good for me. The Boss-man and I had been tracking The Scarecrow for almost a month and, last night, we finally brought him down. It was not pretty for anyone involved, including us. Whatever crazy toxins that whack job's been honing in the last four weeks proved to be really powerful. I hallucinated things I never want to see again, felt things I can't describe without screaming. Even so, I focused hard enough to eliminate straw bag's hired help so the big guy could deal with the man uninterrupted. Bruce took his time.

Scarecrow had stopped being just a gimmick at the start of our investigation. Before we caught him, he'd indirectly killed twelve people with his chemicals. They were straight-up suicides mostly, but some victims had simply stumbled into traffic or fallen off their roofs. I know it's cold, but these people aren't people to me, just names and photographs. The big man isn't the same. He feels every death, every victim's pain. It should break him. It should break anybody. With him it just strengthens his resolve. I feel sorry for Crane because he doesn't know how long Bruce has been working this case, how many hours the man has spent scrutinizing the evidence. He didn't sleep for three days. Scarecrow doesn't know how hell-bent the Boss was on catching him. He didn't witness the interrogations of low-life scum. He couldn't hear their screams, their hysterical pleas for him to stop. Sure, the guy could feel the net closing, but failed to notice Bruce turning the screw. Had he been aware of all these things, he might have fled, caught a plane to Europe and disappeared. I saw all these things. I was there for all of it. I felt like running. Bruce scared me. He scared me big-time.

I had left the room when the beating started, but I heard the screams. Bruce never said a word during the whole ugly affair. Straw-bag kept asking him why, but the big man was mute. When we called it in, Bruce didn't want to hang around. I didn't either. We left him broken on the floor. They carted Crane off to the emergency room before booking him. Bruce's expression was unreadable afterwards, but I knew he wasn't sorry. When we were driving back he administered the antidote at double concentration to straighten me out. The craziness bled out my vision, but I was still shaky. When he asked me what was wrong, I couldn't speak. The big man had never looked so dangerous to me before last night. But now I knew. I knew what he was like before my arrival, before things became complicated. It became so obvious why criminals feared him. Jonathan Crane was his reminder to them, his warning for the next individual to cross him. They'll stay back a while now. A long, freaking while.

I had nightmares last night, the kind that only ends in a cold sweat. I think I slept two hours altogether and even they were bad hours. I'm beginning to dread sleep. But right now I'm in the back of the Rolls, falling asleep on Bruce's shoulder. It's morning, early morning and a Saturday. We're at the cemetery. As soon as we leave the warmth and security of the car, the cold, biting winds are happy to keep me awake. My coat isn't a good choice; the wind cuts right through me. We walk through the gates and down the main drag in silence. There is no-one else here. We are alone with the dead. I don't like it at all. Eventually we reach a place I have heard about many times but never seen before; the graves of Bruce's parents.

The headstones are impressive. They sit side by side, two massive obelisks made out of solid granite, bearing the names of their occupants in what seem like foot-high letters. They both read 'HERE LIES' with the names underneath. There is no birth date, no death date, no tributes or biblical verses, no images and no flamboyant touches of any kind on either. Their power is in their stark simplicity. I feel the weight of history on my shoulders standing beside Bruce in this place. Because this is the big man's sacred ground and the source for everything he has become. No-one has ever accompanied him here before. He prefers to make his annual gestures alone, unhindered by company. It makes me wonder why I've been brought here now, at this time. The big man will have a reason, no doubt. He is The Batman after all.

"Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"I apologize for the events last night in Crane's apprehension. I know you were scared."

"Well, that fear toxin crap was pretty str-"

"I know you were scared of me, of my…behaviour towards Crane. I did not wish you to be witness to such brutality."

"I understand, Bruce."

We stare at one another for long, slow minutes with nothing but the wind to fill the quiet. The big man is scrutinizing my face carefully. He's trying to see whether I really understand his motives or not. In truth, I don't, but I hope he can't tell that. He shakes his head almost mournfully. "No. You don't. I was wrong to act with such disdain. I want you to know I will never behave with such disregard again." Bruce hasn't made an attempt to touch me for almost a week. There have been no hands on shoulder, no gentle hugs, no gestures of reassurance whatsoever. I have been afraid and unable to find comfort in the man I trust more than any other. Now, he continues to refrain from physical contact.

"Okay." I sound as tired and cold as I feel and probably look. I am not particularly interested in the situation unfolding here anymore; I just want rest, good rest. Bruce frowns.

"Dick, have you not been sleeping well?"

"No. I don't want to be rude but can we go now? I'm freezing out here." I jam my hands into my armpits as if to emphasise the point. Bruce is not offended; he just continues to frown.

"I seem to always neglect you these days, don't I?" He says with a morose tone of voice I find haunting. He could be a ghost with a voice like that. A wind cuts straight through me and I shudder violently.

"Just come hug me!" I shout. The big guy jerks me back against his body a moment later, his arms wrapping around my chest and pulling me flush against his. He shields me from the wind and his wool coat soon feels warm on my numb skin. I breathe slowly to regain my composure. Bruce says nothing. He's waiting for me to start. So I do.

"Bruce, I'm tired, I'm cold, I don't want to stay out here much longer. Whatever guilt you're feeling towards me, forget it. I'm not traumatised by what I saw or heard at all. All is forgiven."

"I worry about you, Dick. I worry about what effect my lifestyle is having on you. I…find parenting very confusing."

I don't really have anything I can say to that. The way my mind is falling apart at the moment, I don't have anything to say to that. Bruce speaks again. "I forget your age. And, when a case becomes a big case, an investigation that must be solved, I let the work consume me. This past month has been a prime example. Sometimes, I lose sight of why I do this at all; I forget the reason why I am Batman. So I come here to remind myself why." He holds me tighter, but I don't mind at all. I don't think I've ever heard him talk this much without being prompted. I just don't know whether I'll like the direction this situation will end up facing.

"My parents were good people. They would have achieved great things. I have tried to honour their memory. I have tried to be a good man."

"You are a good man."

"Good men do not hurt others for their own satisfaction. Good men do not hurt their children by ignoring them, by…breaking them."

There it is. Bruce thinks I'm broken. He thinks he's abused me and that in turn has destroyed me. Maybe there's truth to that, but I am NOT broken. Not yet. I am haunted, maybe even traumatised by my recent past, but I am not broken. I've become too strong inside to break over things like this. Once, this investigation would have taken my innocence. It hasn't. I am still a child at heart. I am still human. I am still alive inside. I tell him this in fewer words.

"I am not broken. My head hurts, but I'm NOT broken. You did what you had to with Scarecrow. You did what you had to do to close this case. I trust you too much to turn away. I love you too much to turn away. Far, far too much."

Nothing happens for a hell of a long time. We just stand there, his arms still holding me tight. Our breathing is the same: slow and relaxed. Bruce is thinking about things, trying to create an appropriate response to mine. I think the big guy's having a little trouble. It's hard to top the powerful feelings card. I always play mine when I just want him to stop overcomplicating things. I love him like I loved my parents: with every fibre of my being. He needs to stop tormenting himself. I still love him. Just because he plays rough, I don't stop loving him. He's good with kids but he doesn't UNDERSTAND kids. We love someone until we are betrayed; Bruce has never betrayed me. Never.

"You always seem to say exactly what I need to hear these days. Has Alfred been teaching you?"

"I don't need Alfie to tell how I feel. Why are we really here?"

"To pay tribute. Today is my parent's wedding anniversary. I have two roses in my coat. I…would like it very much if you would lay one down for my mother."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Unless you would prefer not to. I know these are not your family…"

"I'd like to."

Whoa. This is big. When he hands me the rose for his mom, I feel like I've finally been let deep inside his head, to the part of him where he keeps his feelings buried. This rose is a symbol of all the big guy's grief and agony over his parents' deaths. Holding it is like holding the most intimate part of Bruce's mind, almost like holding the spirit of that kid he used to be. It feels fragile in my hands. I look at Bruce. He's holding the rose for his dad. We lay them down together and I retreat back into the human shield a few moments after. And then we stand there, regarding them for what seems like the longest time in my entire life. I try to imagine what his parents must've been like. They must have been amazing people; nothing else would turn their son into what he's become. And suddenly I feel sorry for Bruce, because he never had a childhood after that was never the same person he'd been before. This one moment changed everything about him and that guy he could've become was just gone, washed away in the grief and the anger.

"Hey Bruce?"

"Yes, Dick?"

"Can we lay roses down for my parents? White ones though; my mother hated red roses."

"Of course. Whenever you like."

There's a short silence. Then I speak.

"You still miss them, right?"

"Every day."

"Me too." His response is to hold me tighter again.

"We'll be alright, Dick. We're not alone."

"And at least they're together, wherever they are."

"Yes, that's a comforting thought."