Well here's the next chapter hope you all enjoy it.

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Its raining here today. Crisp, cold droplets of water bearing down on Gotham, embracing it in a miserable icy grip.

I read the name, carved into the gravestone like a fine series of scars. That name was chizzled in by a knife that tore its way through the very heart of the league.

Bruce Wayne.

No...not Bruce Wayne...Batman.

This isn't Clark Kent staring at the grave of Bruce Wayne. This is Superman standing over the grave of Batman.

I pull away my glasses, look onto the grave again. I try to think of something to say but my mind comes up with a complete blank. Nothing comes to me. Nothing but platitudes and grievances which I know you'd only be angry at. Growling and glaring, telling me to pull myself together and "get the hell over it"

So...I settled for the one thing I knew you'd always listen to.

A progress report.

"Everything you prepared is going off like clockwork just so you know." I said, digging my hands deep into the brown coat I wore today.

"Dr. Leslie made out the cause of death to have been injuries from a bear attack while you were away in your summer home in Montana. Filed the death certificate. Proper papers for your body's transportation have been forged and the money you had is being transferred according to your specifications."

I paused. Swallowing as I felt my jaw twitch with uncertainty before I pressed on and continued.

"Richard, took on the cowl yesterday from what I hear..." I smiled, though, I don't think anyone would have seen any humor in it.

"22 injury reports and three in psychiatric care for post traumatic stress syndrome. You would have been proud." I said jokingly, trying to alleviate my tension as I spoke to a slab of cold granite.

The humor fell flat, even to me, and I visibly felt my face falling, a frown replacing the weak smile I had before. "But...to tell you the truth...I don't think he'll keep it up for much longer"

The rain was falling harder now, and a harsh, biting wind, howled through Gotham city's graveyard, a groaning moan amongst the dead, that unsettled the trees, whipping the leaves on the branches in a violent orchestra.

I pulled my coat tighter around me, more out of habit than any real cold. I don't know why I thought that about Dick. I've seen him in action before. He's as good as any other non powered league member. If not better. There's no reason why he wouldn't be able to continue.

I try to think back on it. To recall the limited amount of interaction we could share within the service at the funeral home and eventual burial. Maybe it was something there that I had seen that brought this opinion to me.

But it was all a haze really. The service, the drive here, the words others spoke of you. It was all hollowed out. Whispers of dust and echoed voices. Their words, meaningless because they all spoke of a man they barely even knew

We knew you. Both sides of you. And without knowing both sides...even the best speech crafter in the world, would find his words, meaningless in our eyes.

Or was that just me? Was I the one that simply couldn't remember?

Even if I could...I don't think it'd reveal anything about Dick and this little quirk thought of mine. That he may not continue being the Bat for long.

It truth...it may just be wishful thinking on my part. You were always the Bat. And to see someone else in that suit...its...its not right. Its not wrong...but its just not right.

Only you could ever be The batman. The Dark Knight of Gotham. In my eyes at least.

Only you, could wield the power and risk that titled brandished you with, with such precision, poise and skill.

Only you...and no matter how well trained, or how well educated Dick was, even by you...he may never be your replacement. At least...not in my eyes.

I feel the sting of moisture behind my eyes and I rub my digits over them, banishing the wetness with a sharp intake of breath, swallowing thickly.

Somewhere...I realize that...I haven't cried. Not once since I heard of your death I haven't shed a tear I'd had to hide them all behind masks.

Masks...we live behind these things; People like us I mean.

I had to hide behind one when I addressed the League, to keep the image of the "infallible leader" of the Justice League intact. Had to hide behind one as Superman, having to tell Alfred that the young man he considered his own was now dead...

Alfred...I don't think I ever saw that man even bat an eyelash with surprise.

But today...today I saw that man cry. He didn't hide his tears...in fact...he showed them to the world with no shame. From a certain point of view, he may have even been, in a way, proud to show that he was close enough to the Wayne patriarch that he could weep over him with tears born of love and sincerity, rather than mere political appearances as so many other of Gotham's elite had done.

For one last time I'd had to hide today again...right here at your funeral no less...I'd had to hide behind one...final mask as Clark Kent, the Reporter who had no connection to Bruce Wayne whatsoever, and certainly no reason to cry over him.

We had, officially, no history, except a few random interviews, mainly because you had been flirting with Lois at the time.

The thought drew a bark of laughter from me, sharp. And it seeded a small, frail bubble of humor in my chest. "Man. I had wanted to wring your neck so bad back then." I said to the chilled night air, over the haze of the downpour. "So arrogant and full of yourself. You definitely know how to play the part of the ass didn't you."

The flat gravestone didn't answer, leaving me in dreaded silence.

"You'd fool everyone with that grin, and suave attitude of yours. Glass of ginger-ale in your hand, passing it off as scotch. Laughing and winking like you owned the place. Half the time you actually did."

The smile on my face was still there, but it was turning frail, weakening with each thought that passed my mind. A slow creeping realization crawling up my legs, coiling around my heart, smothering it with the knowledge my mind already knew.

There will be no more of these memories, no more of these events to categorize and keep in the vaults of my mind. No more of these little markers with which to remember our friendship and whatever bond of comrades or brothers we may have once shared.

No more...

The tears that had previously been locked safely away within my eyes glistened forward, slowly but surely plowing their way through until my eyes burned with the salty moisture.

I can feel my lips trembling, and I draw in a shuddering breath and fresh tears were soon mixing with the rainwater that trailed down my face.

"You stupid bastard." I say between shuddering breaths, my chest and shoulders heaving with each sharp gasp.

The pain clenched my chest like a vice, almost physically crippling in its intensity. My shoulders hunch forward and my head falls, allowing the heavy rain to pelt the back of my head and neck driving its cold talons deep into my bones.

I tried to hold back the tears, to stave the flow. To rein in my emotions as I was so used to doing and had been doing all day. But I couldn't.

For all my strength for all my power I couldn't stop these tears from coming, couldn't stop this horrible gut wrenching feeling that seemed to choke the air in my throat and clog my lungs in my chest.

Everything hurt now. As though my Kryptonian invulnerability had simply abandoned me to the festering pack of wolves that was my grief, and would gnaw on the flesh off of my very bones.

"You stupid bastard." I vaguely felt myself repeating amidst the hiss and drum of the rain.

Abruptly, the rain stopped, and the deafening hiss was instantly replaced by a drumming pit pat pit pat of water striking the plastic of an umbrella. The cold water cut off, leaving only the chilling wind to hammer against me.

I turn slowly, uncertain of who is there but already having some small idea already.

"Master Kent." Came the familiar, crisp voice of Alfred Pennyworth as my eyes met his. Finding the familiar hazel brown of his eyes, the thinly groomed mustache and familiar black tux. "Kryptonian physiology or not good sir. You will catch your death out here."

He spoke with a face, void of emotion. Completely stone like, as if the thin line of his lips, the languid look in his eyes and the calm mannerisms were carved into the very fabric of his persona.

For a moment his eyes took on a softer look, more understanding and slowly, the old butlers hand raised itself, and rested with reassuring firmness on my shoulder. He nodded slowly, and I saw once again, the visage of this...strong man, crack with sadness and glossed eyes. "I know." The British butler said staring straight into my eyes. "I will miss him too master Kent."

The words, the simple statement that I would miss him, was all that was needed for my hastilly regained composure to crumble away into nothingness.

Alfred stepped forward, embracing me in a one armed hug, the other hand still firmly grasping the umbrella.

I wondered over his composure now. How he could be so calm and poised. Because I know, for a fact, that he cared for Bruce. Loved him like a son, but his actions bespoke of his feelings and as much as I appreciated the strength of Alfred, the surety of him at this point in time where everything seems to have simply turned on its ear with a harrowing intensity and nothing was certain anymore. Certainly not the certainty I previously had over Bruce's strength.

And it was with that harrowing thought that I realized why Alfred could remain like this. Could retain his strength and poise in the wake of this tragedy.

Because he was prepared for it.

For years, Alfred must have known the risks. Come to terms with the possibility that each night may be the very last he would see Bruce alive. He had raised Bruce. Seen his faults and his strengths for what they were. And knew the man better than he knew himself

And so he had been prepared...braced himself for the ever present possibility of the man's death.

Whereas I-we of the Justice League had not.

"I will miss him too." The butler repeated. with a gentle hand on my back "I will miss him too."

I took in a shuddering breath before pulling away, staring down at the older man whom took a step back. Apparently, already knowing the privacy I required for this despite his hesitance to leave me standing in the rain.

I turned around, now to face the grave once again. Finding your name still firmly carved into the stone.

I knelt, one hand coming to rest on the top of the gravestone.

I was silent for a long time, trying to think of something to say, some meaningful, final goodbye. But my mind came up with nothing. For years words have been coming to me. Either to spur the league on with a speech, or as the reporter Clark Kent writing an article. But now, here. Where it was more important I could come up with nothing.

Soon, I gave up on trying to think of my goodbye. Because this was not Superman adressing the League, or even Batman. And this was not Clark Kent writing an article for the Planet.

"I'll do my best Bruce..." I pause. Looking up to the night sky, an inky black pitch of rainclouds that blot out the light of the moon.

"But whatever happens...Please don't think less of me." I said, forcing the words through my cloged voicebox before leaning forward and kissing the top of the gravestone before I stood and turned. Leaving the grave of Bruce Wayne.

The Grave of Batman

The Grave of a friend.

The grave of my Brother in all but name.

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Sorry for the delay. I was dragged away from my computer unexpectedly for several days.