A/N: This story is inspired by a short scene from Batman: The Animated Series, from the episode, "Nothing to Fear." It is the scene at the end of the episode, where Bruce laid two roses at his parents' tombstones.
A/N 2: I know that in various portrayals (both comic and movies), the focus was always on the pearls from Martha Wayne's necklace dropping onto the ground after being ripped from her neck. So, this story can also be taken as a slight AU from canon.
A/N 3: There seems to always be formatting issues with story breaks. So, I've just used random number lines to indicate a break in perspectives.
Blood from Roses
He pulled his coat's collar higher and tighter around him as he strode past the once popular buildings. It was always cold this time of the year, and even more so this night.
The few who were gathered around trashcan fires passed glances his way, at his rich man's wear and the two roses he held in his bare left hand despite the weather. But no one bothered him. Maybe it was too cold to bother. Maybe they were just good but homeless guys looking for some shelter from the cold. Maybe it was the way he walked.
He made a left turn after the third alley, his shoes sending puddles of water splashing as his steps slowed but became heavier, him feeling more boy than man. He exhaled softly, coming to a stop, staring at the hard tiles washed clean by years of rain and weathering. The memory of blood overlaid his vision, and he took a moment to remember.
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He knew his life was over the moment he saw the sharp spark flare from the muzzle of the gun.
Once.
Twice.
Thomas Wayne fell before him, his body jerking as he had leapt before his wife and son to shield them from the bullet. His body fell with a dull thud, splattering the puddles which lay beneath him.
The man reached out for the pearls around Martha Wayne's neck, but the only thing he saw was that she had squeezed her hand so tightly around the roses she held that the first few drops of blood fell from her fingers before the fire of the bullets hastened the rest of the flow.
The roses fluttered to the ground noiselessly, followed by the soft plink! plink of the pearls as they came loose from the thread they were strung on, falling on the ground around and on the roses like little pebbles bouncing about.
And then, the final thud of her body.
The man stared at him in horror, but simply curled his hand more tightly around the pearls he had already grabbed. He turned and ran.
As he sunk to his knees beside the bodies, wordless with grief, he could not help but notice the roses stained redder with the blood around them, soaking up the cooling life even as the ground around turned darker.
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He bent to place the roses gently on the ground, for the two who others barely remembered.
Wetness trickled down his palm to his fingers, as he realized, once again, that he had pierced himself on the thorns of the roses when he had gripped them so tightly, just as she had once gripped them.
He had never remembered to cut the thorns off.
He would never forget that it was the roses which took first blood from her hand.