Title: When the Earth Comes to Call
Disclaimer: DC's
Archive: If it strikes your fancy
Spoilers: Nothing notable I can think of…AUish where Alfred, Robin I, II, and Oracle comprise the only Batfamily

Sometimes it seems he's lived life in graveyards, born in the silt and the clay, growing up among the headstones. Sometimes he thinks the outside world is a graveyard, populated by flowers, walking among the fresh and the dying, evanescent tributes to heritages long gone. Sometimes he wonders if he is one -- one of the dying -- a withered rose. And he thinks he must be because it feels like he will snap and crumble at any moment.

A black rose. Not at all like the white or the red for his parents. Not like the many colors of Zinnia for Alfred. Not like any of them, rather terribly alone and isolated: an oddity, an impossibility.

Sometimes he thinks he belongs in Arkham.

Dick used to remind him that he didn't -- that if he had, a little circus boy might still be lonely, might not have a home, might have turned out exactly like he did. But Dick isn't here anymore. The earth has reclaimed her flower, just as she has reclaimed Jason, and his mother, and his father, and so many others -- so very, very many.

Sometimes he wonders why she hasn't reclaimed him yet. Sometimes he wishes she would. But he knows he can't go -- not yet -- not while there is still work to do -- he can't -- no, won't -- go willingly.

But without Dick, he really does wonder if he should seek the Asylum. He wonders how much willpower he has left, and how much more he needs.

Probably too much.

The flowers in his hands feel so much heavier than they are, weighted with guilt and regret. But he can't bring himself to lay them down, not yet. He can't finalize it. But delaying the inevitable cannot bring his son back.

The flower shop keeper had tried to sell him Chrysanthemums and Yarrow. It wasn't fitting. She told him it meant, "rest and healing." He knew the meaning would ring hollow if it came from him, the obsessive.

So he lays purple hyacinth on Dick's grave reluctantly and gingerly, knowing it will be the first of endless visits. He feels more alone than ever; somehow leaving the flowers there impacts the loss more than the wake, more than the funeral. He wants to cry, but he cannot. He is withered, and so very dry.

Footsteps in the miry dirt, muddy from the steady rain, shake him from his reverie.

"I thought I'd find you here," Clark says quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. The weight of it threatens to snap Bruce. "We need to talk."

He doesn't know what to say, or if he can even speak. But he can think, and he wonders how long it will be until the Man of Steel leaves too -- again. But, hope blossoms, perhaps the Kryptonian will outlive him. He can think of no one fitter for the job.

"Bruce."

He needs the cowl. He needs to be Batman. Because Batman has the thorns. Bruce is nothing but dry petals. But with or without cowl, he will talk to his friend. He knows he must. He needs the catharsis more than ever, more than anything.

The man can make coal into diamonds. But, as ironic as it is, Clark is the only person Bruce trusts to be gentle enough with his dried soul.

Someday he hopes the other man will lay Chrysanthemums and Yarrow on his grave.

----------

A/N: I took some liberty with the flora…

Flowers (from the Clare Florist website):
Zinnia - In memory of an absent friend
Hyacinth (Purple) - Please forgive me; Sorrow
Chysanthemum - Rest
Yarrow - Healing