Author's Note: Here's another little flash fic for you. This is very much a Bruce/Dick bonding piece with grieving for Damian mixed in heavily, so fair warning. There will be new Turkey Song out this weekend, followed by the last chapter of Sick and Twisted. I may drop another flash fic in there as well, maybe something a little lighter in theme. Happy reading!

Bruce found his eldest son exactly where he'd expected to, leaning against a fresh slab of marble on which were carved dates that summed only twelve years. Noting the pensive look on his face and not wanting to intrude, he halted at the graceful monument marking his parents' resting place. Would they have loved Damian more than the other three, he mused, because he was their biological descendant? He didn't think so, but there had been so little time for him to learn the specifics of their characters that he couldn't be certain. He had been nearly as ignorant about his youngest, he reflected; between his youth at the end of his mother and father's lives and his last-born's habit of taciturnity, he felt as if he'd barely known his own blood.

"You can come over if you want," sounded just before guilt washed over him.

"...You're sure?"

"Yeah. We weren't talking or anything."

That statement disturbed the billionaire's no-nonsense attitude towards all things supernatural, but he let it slide. Dick had always been more...spiritual...than he was, and he saw no good reason to disrespect his ability to balance science and the mystical in his heart. Instead of questioning, he made his way over and sat. "You've been gone a while."

"Couple hours."

"Four."

"Really?" He looked at his watch. "...Oh."

"Alfred was worried when you didn't come in for lunch."

"Sorry. I guess I got caught up out here and just forgot."

"...Chum?"

"Hmm?"

"It's okay."

A deep sigh replied. "Not really it isn't, Bruce. Not really."

"It will be," he tried.

"It will never be, not entirely. Stop trying to contradict what you told me when I was first learning how to grieve."

A silence drew out. "What were you thinking about, before?" Bruce ventured. "You looked pretty deep into it."

"I...well..."

"...It's fine if it's private, Dick. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." Even as he spoke his absolution, a blade of hurt slipped between his ribs. There had been moments since his return to Gotham when he'd felt that his connection with the other man had weakened. It seemed, he'd noted, that some of the confidences they had once shared had been transferred to Damian in his absence. For all that he would never have wished harm on any of his children, one of the few cohesive thoughts he'd had the night after the boy's death had been that maybe things would return to the way they once were with Dick. Now, hearing reticence in his first partner's tone, he felt doubt creep in.

"It's not that."

"...No?"

"No. I just don't want to scare you."

His fragile hope morphed into concern. "What do you mean?"

"I just...I was thinking about something Khalil Gibran wrote, that's all."

He almost chuckled. Who else would someone like Dick turn to temper their sadness and anger than a believer in universal love and the lyrical verse? "And what was that?"

"...'Our sorrow over the dead may be a sort of jealousy.'"

Bruce's lips turned downward. The words had been spoken contemplatively, giving him no reason to think that his son wanted to join those buried around them, but natural paternal worry sped his heart. "...Dick..."

"See? I knew you wouldn't like it. Relax; I'm feeling some survivor guilt, yes, but I'm far from suicidal."

"Then what did you mean?"

"Well...it's an interesting thought, isn't it? 'Our sorrow over the dead may be a sort of jealousy,'" he repeated slowly. "Think about it. If you believe in an afterlife, death would be a relief. You'd finally know what was going to happen, where you'd ended up. You wouldn't have to fear landing in the wrong place anymore. Even if there's nothing after death, the point stands. There'd be no more pain, no more loss, no more regret. There wouldn't be any joy or happiness or light, either, but it's not like you'd notice. I'm in no rush to find out if that's how things are, don't get me wrong, but...if we died right now, the dead wouldn't grieve." He looked away, his eyes suddenly overflowing as the point of his philosophical ramble came out. "Not having to grieve...I'm very jealous of that right now, Bruce."

Something twisted in the billionaire's chest at those words, and he pulled his son into a tight embrace. "...I know, baby," his own cheeks dampened. "I know. I wish-"

"-That you could make it go away?"

"That I could have gotten him to open up the way you did. I never really knew him, Dick," he confessed. "Now the opportunity's gone, and I never will. That...that hurts."

"...He was so much like you. I think that was part of the problem between you two, to be honest."

"Maybe." He didn't want to examine the reasons, not when it was too late to do anything about them. "...Maybe," an idea dawned, "you can fill me in on just how he was." Maybe, he hoped, that would make grieving a bit easier for both of them.

"I've tried telling you how he is – how he was – a million times before, you know."

"I know. And I know I didn't listen very well. But...try me again, huh? Unless you think he'd mind."

Dick raised his head, sniffling. "He wouldn't mind. If there's one paramount way he was like you," a soft smile broke through his veil of tears, "it was that he really just wanted to feel loved."

"Well, I know you succeeded in giving him that," Bruce said gently, desperate to wipe away the pain in his son's gaze, "so let's sit here a while longer so you can share some of what you figured out on the road to giving him what he really wanted."

"...Yeah," the younger man agreed, settling back against the stone again. "I think he'd like that. He'd never say so, but...I think he'd like that a lot."

"Good," the billionaire encouraged. "...So would I."