Inspired by both the quote below (which is also where the title comes from) and the song Pretty Angry (Blues Traveller).
Warning: Major character death (before the story), but all of them are canon deaths. Implied homophobia. Also spoilers for said deaths.
"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
Love leaves a memory no one can steal."
— From a headstone in Ireland
Crouching on a rooftop and watching for criminals, Tim can't help but feel utterly inadequate in his perfectly-sized yet still ill-fitting Batman uniform. It's not the first time he's felt that way, and it certainly won't be the last.
Eighteen years old and bearing the symbol of Gotham's Dark Knight. It's a wonder how he hasn't been crushed under its weight yet.
And sometimes, the cowl does just becomes far too much for him. When that happens, when he's drowning under responsibilities and guilt and grief, when his countless ghosts grow too loud to bear, Tim goes to visit Barbara in the Clocktower and does his best to just shut out the world. He wishes desperately he could simply flat-out leave the city, but he can't abandon Gotham. Not after everything. Not after everyone who's sacrificed themselves for it. At least this way he can get out of the Manor, away from the silent halls and empty rooms and haunting memories.
Sometimes he and Barbara talk. Most of the time they don't; they've long since said any words that needed to be said. All they really need now is just each other's presence, a reminder that someone is still there. That they haven't lost everyone.
Cass joins them too, on occasion. With his sisters beside him, the world doesn't feel so lonely. Tim is never going to live a normal life, but for the moment, he can pretend to believe in his future.
Eventually, though, life catches up with him. It always does, just as often as death steals almost everyone's lives but his own.
Tim thinks he might be losing something every time he puts the cowl on, something good inside him. It happened to Bruce, after Jason. It happened to Dick, after Damian. Now it's happening to Tim. The darkness is reaching for him, claws out, ready to drag him into the depths. It'd be better for Tim if he were to just cast the cowl aside and never look back.
But Bruce is dead. Dick is dead. Barbara isn't an option, and Tim would let the world burn to ashes before he ever forces Cass to shoulder this burden. He's the only one left. He has to.
He has no choice. The city needs him, and Tim has never walked away when he's needed.
So night after night, Tim roams Gotham's streets, dressed in a uniform that fits perfectly yet still feels too big, too empty, too hollow. Cass is a silent shadow, sometimes patrolling with him, more often handling her half of the city with far more grace than he ever could. Barbara is their ever-watchful eye in the sky, unable to physically patrol with them but always a welcome presence in their ears.
The three still here. The three left behind.
When Tim sleeps, though, he's always alone, his nightmares and memories rising up to haunt him.
He sees Bruce incinerated by omega beams, Dick choking around a pill and a hand. He's forced to watch the Heretic impaling Damian, Steph writhing under Black Mask's knife.
Tim's never even met Jason Todd, not in any real capacity, but he still dreams of a warehouse in the snow, of blood speckling a white face and agonized screams drowning out crazed laughter.
It's little comfort that Joker, too, is dead.
Tim pulls himself out of his thoughts when he sees yet another mugger chasing someone into an alley. Tonight is a busy night, extremely so. None of the major criminals, fortunately, but there's a frankly absurd number of muggers and petty thieves out and about, even for Gotham. Tim's taking one down at least every twenty minutes or so.
"Give up," Tim says to the latest criminal in his best impersonation of Batman's growly tones. It's a pretty accurate mimicry, although he's sure most of Gotham already knows he's not the original Batman. The height difference is just too great; even now, seventeen-going-on-eighteen and likely as grown as he's going to be, he's several inches shorter than Bruce was and far slimmer.
The mugger jumps and spins around, releasing the person he has pinned against the alley wall. The guy's a little bigger than average, but not by much. Behind him, the victim — a boy no more than fourteen — cringes away from him. The mugger's brandishing a knife, the silver metal a gleam in the darkness.
He's also obviously flat-out drunk.
"B'ssma," he slurs, bleary eyes trying to focus on Tim. Honestly, it's a wonder he's even coherent enough to recognize the uniform, let alone try to mug someone. Still, the mugger waves the knife around in what's probably supposed to be a threatening manner and turns toward him, away from his victim.
Tim's expecting an uncoordinated attack. Drunk people have the potential to be dangerous in their unpredictability, reckless to the point of idiocy. This guy, however, is so blatantly telegraphing his movements that all Tim will really need to do is step out of the way and watch him go careening past. He's about to do just that when something completely unexpected happens:
The mugger trips over his own untied shoelaces.
Tim can only stare as he drops the knife, flails his arms in a futile attempt at regaining his balance, and ends up face-planting into the wall, knocking himself out. It's like something straight out of a comedy; even the would-be victim is gaping incredulously at the guy.
Tim can't help but laugh at the sight, turning to address his best friend. "Did you see that — "
His grin dies.
Oh. Right.
He clears his throat and tries to ignore the pang of grief welling up inside him. Turning back to the situation at hand, he adopts a light-hearted curl of his lips to help put the kid at ease. Tim checks him over for any injuries, then — after cuffing the mugger and leaving him in the alley for the police to pick up — walks him home.
Once the kid is safe in his home, his smile fades away again.
Tim will always miss Steph. Her loss is as prominent and painful as losing an arm or leg. What's worse than the grief is the moments where he lapses back into old habits. Steph always had a grin on her face and a joke at the ready. And every now and then, usually after taking down a group of thugs and riding high on the adrenaline of the fight, he forgets: Tim will turn to Steph with a smile and a witty comment he knows she'll love, only to abruptly remember —
She's gone.
His oldest friend is gone and dead and buried, and Tim is alone with the haunting memories of a smile he'll never see again.
The pain, old but no less potent, sweeps over him like a tidal wave. A choked-off sob slips out before he can stop it. Tim swallows thickly and does his best to blink away the tears that spring to his eyes. He has to gulp down several deep breaths before he's composed himself into something relatively more dignified.
Barbara is silent in his ear, respectfully giving him privacy. Tim appreciates it, and yet... yet...
He closes his eyes.
Once, Conner would've heard that something was wrong and come running. Once, Bart would've appeared on his doorstep with a couple dozen bags of popcorn and a list of movies already queued up.
Once. Not anymore.
His heart aches, reminding him again of what he's lost. The missed chances that he'd never been brave enough to chase.
The rest of patrol passes in a daze. Soon he's back in the cave. He only stays long enough to change from the Batsuit to civilian clothes before he leaves again, getting on his motorcycle and roaring out of the cave. He drives aimlessly at first, but it's not long before he finds himself heading down a familiar path. One he's taken more times than he can count.
The private graveyard is quiet, filled with a haunting sereneness. Tim's footsteps are the only sound, like muffled claps of thunder in the silence. Few bodies are truly buried here, but he had it created anyway, in a futile attempt to hold what little he had left of them close.
Tim stops in the middle, listening to the silence. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can almost imagine everyone there with him. Family and allies and friends and comrades. Everything they had had. Everything that could've been.
Perhaps in another world, they would have come back. Perhaps in another world, they never would have died in the first place. Perhaps in another world, things are better.
Perhaps in another world, Tim is not the only one left to carry the burden of the cowl.
This is not that world; the rows of gravestones before him, bearing the names of teammates, friends, and family, are a grim testament to that.
He knows she's there when he hears a soft whoosh of air behind him. Standing on the edge of a skyscraper rooftop and sorting through the nightly police reports coming in, he shuts off the computer set on the forearm of his suit and turns at her arrival.
"Wonder Woman," he greets.
Cassie gives him a tired smile. "Tim."
"No names in uniform," he objects automatically. Then he winces, Bruce's words awkward in his mouth.
Cassie just lets out a little huff of air, almost like a laugh, and her body loses some of its tension. She settles onto the ledge beside him, and Tim follows suit. Despite being on patrol, when she reaches out to place her hands on both sides of his head, Tim obligingly deactivates his suit's automatic defenses. It's a quiet night anyway, and on the top of a skyscraper, it's not like anyone is around to see them. She pulls off the cowl, and the wind washes across his bare face.
"Not in uniform now," she says.
Despite himself, his lips quirk upward into the beginnings of a grin. He pats the spot next to him, and Cassie doesn't waste any time in settling down beside him. She's dressed in her Wonder Woman armor, although she has a coat thrown on over top of it. Her hair is unkempt, as if she rolled out of bed and flew straight here without brushing it. If he were to guess, she probably did.
"So what're you doing here, at" — he checks the time — "3:47 in the morning?"
"Needed to see you," she says quietly, and Tim's smile fades away into solemn acknowledgement. He can hear the unspoken meaning clear as day: needed to know that you're still alive.
"Nightmare?"
"Yeah."
Now he knows why she's wearing her armor underneath her coat. They feel safer, stronger, when they have their uniform on — they all do. It gives them the freedom to access all their powers to defend themselves, and each other. It makes them feel faster, stronger, better. And after the loss of so many, the fear of not being there, of not being enough...
Tim wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls Cassie close. It's to comfort her as much as it is a silent invitation: want to talk about it?
She leans into his side gratefully but doesn't say anything at first. They watch Gotham's bright lights for a few minutes, content to just exist together. The last of the tension in Cassie trickles our of her, and for a moment, Tim can't feel the burden of the cowl. His best friend's warm weight against his side chases his stress and pain away.
Finally, Cassie sighs, her breath puffing softly in the air. "Donna," she reveals. "Only the android didn't stop there. It killed... so many people. Conner. Bart. Roy... You."
"I'm sorry," he breathes. "It's... it's okay now though. The android's destroyed. I'm still here. I'm still alive, and if I have anything to say about it, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."
That's the problem, though, isn't it? I probably won't be able to say anything about it.
"It's not fair," she murmurs. She curls into herself, tears glimmering in her eyes.
"No," Tim agrees softly, "it's not."
There's little pain that can compare to watching an older sibling be killed right in front of one's eyes and not being able to do anything about it. Tim knows, because he had seen Dick die and he couldn't stop it. Just like how Cassie couldn't save Donna.
"It killed Conner and Bart too," Cassie whispers after a minute, voice raw. "It was like losing them all over again. They were so alive in the dream and then the android turned on them. And then I woke up and I was so relieved, because it was just a dream. Only — only — "
She cuts herself off with a choked noise, and Tim tightens his hold around her. Cassie returns his embrace just as fiercely. Just like Tim with Batman, she's been growing into her role as Wonder Woman; but glancing down at her in that moment, it strikes Tim just how young Cassie looks. And she is young, barely college age. They both are. So young, and yet the only ones left to carry the mantles of their mentors.
The only survivors of their shattered, war-torn families.
Tim and Cassie sit there, high above Gotham city, watching distant lights glow, two heroes that should be four. If he concentrates, he thinks he can almost feel them there, sitting at his side, the core four of the Teen Titans. Conner's rumbling laugh. Bart's infectious grin. A friendship that was supposed to last for the ages.
Tim wonders, sometimes, what life would be like if they came back. If they got a second chance. If they just walked back into his life with a smile, strong and whole and alive, like nothing ever happened. Like Tim never loved and lost and mourned and moved on.
But resurrection is a pipe dream, nothing more. No one who dies will ever come back to life, no matter how badly Tim wishes otherwise.
"I miss them," Tim whispers, barely audible over the mournful silence.
Cassie rests her head on his shoulder, letting out a noise that's half-sigh, half-sob, and he knows she's drawing just as much comfort from him as he is from her. "Me too."
In the middle of a Justice League meeting, Tim's words trail off abruptly as the crushing, overpowering feeling of hopelessness crashes down on him.
Half the world. Dozens of cities. Countless villains. And only eight major-league heroes — nine if Tim counts Krypto — ready and joined together with him to fight.
The Justice League used to be a huge, expansive network — and it still was, in a way, but nowhere near the size it had been in the "golden days," before heroes started dropping like flies. Sure, it was still connected to a sizable number of small-time or retired heroes and allies, but the main leadership, the main line of Earth's defenses...
Well, out of the originals, only Billy and Victor are left. Experienced with heroism but still so young. One is a kid and the other is barely into adulthood, and neither knows how nor wants to take command.
So it falls to Tim. Batman III. Awkward, antisocial kid. High school drop-out. Teenage CEO of Wayne Enterprises. The last survivor of his father and three brothers.
Tim's sucks in a quiet breath, feeling the enormity of all his responsibilities pressing down on his shoulders. It's up to him to fix this mess but he's in way over his head and he has absolutely no idea where to start. He has to lead seven heroes and a super-powered dog and somehow beat the waves of villains rising up in every direction he looks.
"Batman?" Roy prompts when the silence stretches on. "You were saying?"
Tim manages to drag his gaze over to him and wonders how Roy managed to find the willpower to drag himself out of depression and addictions and drugs, even as those he loved continued to crash and burn all around him.
"Batman?" Wally says quietly.
"How can we do this?" he asks, voice suddenly cracking, heart thudding hollowly in his ears. The others in the JL go silent and still as he sinks down into his chair. "How can we fix this when we let everything get so bad in the first place? How can we fix this without..."
Without our mentors by our sides?
No one seems to know what to say. M'gann's face is lined with sorrow and concern and sympathy. Victor opens and closes his mouth soundlessly. Garth clutches his trident tightly, eyes grim. Even Krypto, cared for by Billy ever since Conner died and standing now by his owner, senses the sudden drop in atmosphere and folds his ears back.
"I don't..." he manages, and then his head falls into his gauntleted hands. To his mortification, he can feel something wet beginning to pool in his eyes; and even worse, since he chose to have the cowl off for the meeting, everyone can see it.
Arms encircle him, and Tim looks up to see Cassie has drawn him into a tight hug. He closes his eyes and hugs his best friend back just as fiercely, tears dripping down his face and splashing silently on her golden armor.
It doesn't make everything magically better; the heavy load on his shoulders is still bearing down upon him. It's still hard to breathe past the lump in his throat.
It's not perfect, but it's not nothing either.
"It'll be okay, Tim," she murmurs. "I've got you. It'll be okay."
Krypto trots around the table and pushes his wet nose into Tim's side. Tim manages a weak chuckle and scratches him behind the ears.
"I'm here for you," Roy promises.
"We all are," Billy adds, looking so young and yet so wise.
So many people lost. So many people dead.
Tim exhales a breath and looks around.
Wally. Cassie. Garth. Billy. Victor. M'gann. Roy. Krypto. And back home, Alfred and Babs and Cass and even Jim Gordon.
So many people dead. So many... but not everyone.
They're still here. They're still fighting. They're still alive and kicking, despite all their pain and grief. And their loved ones live on in their memories. Tim's still here with them all, honoring Clark and Diana and Arthur. Honoring Oliver and J'onn and Hal and Barry. Honoring Conner and Bart. Honoring Dick and Steph and Jason and even Damian.
Honoring Bruce.
Maybe he can't match his predecessors stride-for-stride... maybe he just wasn't built to move that fast... but he can still make sure their deaths weren't in vain.
"You're not alone, Batman," Garth says softly, and Krypto barks in agreement.
Wally gives Tim an easy smile, and though his eyes are sad, determination is written in his face. "We're the Justice League. We got this."
(Afterward, when the villains have been been defeated and the world has been saved once again, the Justice League celebrates their victory by throwing a party in the Watchtower. Later that night, Tim visits a cluster of graves sitting behind Wayne Manor.)
(He likes to think that somehow, somewhere, they're listening.)
It's not often Tim gets a chance to walk through the city alone. As CEO of Wayne Enterprises and a teenager CEO at that, he's rarely ever alone. After losing so many of the Wayne family, Tam Fox is determined that the same won't happen to Tim. Thus, despite his protests, he almost always has bodyguards of some kind tailing him whenever he's in public. In Wayne Manor, there's a rotating cast of men who patrol the perimeter — outside of the security system already installed, fortunately. He was very insistent on that.
The guards are well-trained and professional, rarely causing any great disruption to his day-to-day life. Still, Tim was very independent and free-spirited as a kid, and time has only made him more so. Being constantly watched and surrounded by the guards leaves him antsy.
So when Tim finds the chance to slip away without raising suspicions, he takes it without hesitation.
Dressed in casual street clothes — actual casual clothes, not the kind that people like his parents would've considered as such — with carefully applied makeup to obscure some of his more prominent features, he finds the city feels far different than it is when he's Tim Wayne, teenage CEO, or Batman, the Dark Knight.
Even as a kid, he'd never really known how to fit in among the general populace. Tim had always stood out, rich and odd as he was.
So walking along like this, just another person in a bustling city... it's nice. Relaxing. Peaceful, even.
Which, of course, is when he finds trouble.
"Get off me!" someone shouts up ahead — a kid, by the sound of it.
Tim doesn't waste a second before he's darting forward. Tennis shoes slapping against the cement, he skids around the corner. Two men, probably mid- to early twenties, are standing over a young boy no more than thirteen or so. One is pinning the struggling kid down; the other is holding a razor to his hair. There's already an F shaved on his head, and most of an A.
It doesn't take long for Tim to figure out exactly what word they're spelling out.
All three look up when he bursts onto the scene.
"Let him go," Tim orders.
One of the men stared at him, then laughs. "Nah, don't think I will. Who are you to tell us what to do?" When Tim doesn't move, his gaze hardens. "Scram, you. Can't you see we're busy here? This kid needs a lesson on just what happens to fa — "
"Shut up," Tim growls lowly, anger coiling inside his chest.
"Stay out of it," the second guy snaps. "Walk away now. This is none of your business."
The kid stares up at him from the ground. Tim can't tell whether he's grateful for Tim's arrival or suspicious of his intentions.
Tim thinks of Conner, the way his smile had made Tim's heart jump. How his eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed, and Tim had trouble tearing his own away. The two had never been anything more than friends, what with Conner dating Cassie and Tim not really having the best headspace for a relationship after Steph's death, but maybe, in another life...
Tim thinks of Conner, of his steadiness and his smiles and his laughter. He looks at this kid, pinned beneath two men much bigger than him, attacked and mocked for being different.
His hands curl into fists.
Tim's never been one to walk away from those who need help — Robin is proof of that — and he's certainly not going to start now.
"Actually," Tim says coolly, "I think it is."
The two pause, glancing at each other with something like incredulity in their eyes. Which is almost fair, he supposed, since all they're seeing is an undersized not-quite-adult challenging two burly, imposing people several years his senior. Then the first guy snorts and turns fully toward him, leaving the second to keep the kid pinned beneath him.
"You really want to do this, kid?" The man cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders. "Because let me tell you, it isn't gonna be fun for you."
Tim jerks his chin toward the kid, unfazed. "Let him go."
The guy shrugs. "Your funeral."
He lunges for Tim, a clumsy, obvious movement. It's a simple matter to slip out of the way, and in a couple quick moves, he's put the guy on the ground. The second gapes at him in shock. His wide eyes flick back and forth between Tim and his groaning partner, as if he's having trouble processing what he just saw.
Tim steps toward him. The guy stiffens defensively, his fist tightening around the kid's shirt.
"Last chance," Tim warns dangerously.
For a moment, he thinks he isn't going to listen. Something sharp burns in the guy's eyes, a mixture of both fury and indignation. He glares defiantly at Tim for a long moment, shoulders tense, not moving. Tim's about ready to lose his patience and just yank him off the kid when he finally grits his teeth and backs off.
"Whatever," he scoffs, though he isn't quite able to hide the fear in his eyes. Scum like you two should stick together anyway. Keep your unnaturalness to yourselves, and out of regular people's lives."
The guy moves to shoulder-check Tim on his way past, but he just leans out of the way. The guy glowers furiously when he stumbles, but he does nothing else as he hauls his friend to his feet and staggers off. Tim checks to make sure he's actually gone before turning back to their victim.
The kid hasn't moved from the ground, squinting up at Tim. Lingering distrust glints sharply in his young eyes. Slowly, he picks himself up, shoulders stiff, muscles coiled with tension. He doesn't seem to quite know what to make of Tim. The two letters shaved into his hair stand out sharply.
Tim holds out a hand and makes a split-second, impulsive decision. "I'm Tim Drake-Wayne. It's nice to meet you...?"
He pauses, giving the younger boy a chance to reply. The kid glances over him suspiciously, shoulders hunched. Tim just smiles and waits patiently until the kid finally reaches over and gingerly shakes his hand.
"Cullen," the kid says warily. "Cullen Row."
Tim's smile widens. "It's nice to meet you, Cullen."
Cullen is a quiet kid, guarded and withdrawn. Given the circumstances of their first meeting, it's not hard to guess why. The first few times Tim stops by his place, he barely talks at all. Tim ends up exchanging a few awkward, stilted words with his older sister, Harper, instead. She's definitely not as shy but just as wary and with a far sharper tongue. The first time Tim visits, he's met with a guarded stare and narrowed eyes.
She warms up a little more after he introduces himself as the guy who saved her little brother, but suspicion lingers in her gaze the whole time. Tim doesn't let it bother him: this is Gotham, after all.
That night, Batman hunts down Bluebird and offers to train her.
She stares at him mistrustfully and turns him down. When Tim pushes, she goes stony and refuses to listen any more. So for the moment, he backs off.
Over the following month, Tim follows Harper as she fights crime. It only takes a few days before she tries to bite off more than she can chew. Before she can get beaten to a pulp, Tim swoops in and fights them off, then extends his offer of training again. She scowls and says no again.
After Tim saves her for the fourteenth time, Harper finally gives in.
He has to admire her stubbornness and independence. They're good qualities for a vigilante to have; still, Harper is raw and inexperienced. She's survived so far, but her luck won't last forever. Tim knows from experience that she's not going to stop her nightly excursions; better to give her the training she needs to survive.
Tim can't bring back the dead, but he can make sure Cullen has an older sister who comes back alive to him every night.
Harper seems to be a little aggrieved about being taught by someone as young as Tim — and that's another point for her: she's new, but has keen eyes and a sharp mind — but nevertheless she listens well and takes great pains to correct the faults he points out.
Between him and Cass and Barbara, Harper improves at an impressive rate.
She's determined and tenacious and fierce, and Tim doesn't need magic to know she's going to go far. He's never taught anyone quite like this before, and every time she successfully pulls off a move, pride swells in his chest.
And yet —
"What am I doing?" Tim asks Cass a couple weeks later, shortly after Harper's her most recent training session. The new vigilante had already left for the night, and it's just the two of them now.
Cass glances up from where she's going through her post-workout stretches, one eyebrow quirked questioningly.
"Why am I training her?" he says, slumping back into the computer chair. "This job is dangerous. It's deadly. Why aren't I just telling her to go home? To hang up the cape?"
He knows why, of course. Harper's not going to stop, so she needs training; plus, he and Cass could really use another vigilante out there, for emergencies if nothing else. Strategically, it makes perfect sense.
But still...
Ever since that first visit to Cullen's house, Tim's had a camera installed in the Row home. Call him nosy, but it's comforting to be able to discreetly check on both his friend and his protégé when he wants.
And it also means that he can see the stark fear on Cullen's face every time Harper heads out for a patrol and the utter relief when she comes home alive.
Cass sits up, frowning. Her words come slowly but with no less conviction. "Know why. Would do it anyway. Keeping her safe."
"I know. I know. It's just..." Tim bows his head, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes. "I was never supposed to be the one standing here, you know? I was... I was the replacement. The stand-in. A placeholder, waiting for someone better to come along and be the partner Bruce needed."
Cass stands and crosses the cave to kneel in front of him. Her gaze is soft as she murmurs, "Not a replacement."
"Except I'm wearing the cowl because I'm the only one left. Because everyone else died. Because Bruce is dead, and Dick is dead, and Jason and Damian and Steph barely even got to live. This life took theirs and it's not going to stop. It's still taking. And I know this and I'm still dragging more people into this... this war. Like they're sacrifices."
"Not a replacement," she insists. "A successor."
He shakes his head.
"Cass... this cowl wasn't ever supposed to be mine. I was going to get Bruce back on his feet and then I was going to head back home. Only the mask sucked me in and now I'm letting it do the same to Harper, even when I know this is only ever going to kill her in the end, just like everyone else — "
Cass interrupts him by placing a hand on the bat symbol splashed across his chest, right above his bleeding, broken heart. He stares down at her, his throat going tight. The tears finally escape his eyes and slip down his face.
"Brother," she says with a sad, proud smile, and the quiet faith and understanding in her voice speaks volumes. "Batman."
Tim inhales deeply and clutches her hand with an aching fierceness. After a moment, he manages a weak smile back, fractured and mournful and shaky. He's not sure he believes her, but it's nice to pretend he does.
This cowl is a death sentence. This life is a death sentence.
But Cullen needs a friend and Harper needs a teacher and Gotham needs a guardian and the Justice League needs a leader and the world needs a hero, and Tim...
Well, Tim has never been one to walk away when he's needed.
Let's be honest, DC canon can get extremely convoluted. I did my best, but it's possible I missed someone who should be dead but isn't. That being said, I'm ignoring later deaths, like Tim's fake one in Detective Comics, or Roy's in Heroes in Crisis, or any others like that. Conversely, I'm treating Bruce's fake-death by Darkseid to be an actual death.
Duke is not a vigilante in this since he became one because of Joker. However, Joker is also dead, since Bruce never brought him back to life after Dick killed him.
Thoughts? Questions? Suggestions?