-It's time…
Cursed is the man who dies, but the evil done by him survives. -Abu Bakr
Below him were the sounds of a somber gathering. Black dresses, black suits, and hushed voices. Dick had already made a point to greet colleagues of Bruce's night job, warning them gently to keep a tight tongue around the various millionaires and socialites. For a while he found being the buffer between hero and human interesting. Those that never got to meet the man behind the cowl wandered in grim curiosity and those who had known him both in cape and corporate simply stood about like they had become just another fixture within the manor. But the tipsy playboys and ill clad gold diggers took an edge off of the situation's sick novelty.
"Oh, oh yoo hoo!" Pausing in his effort to track down a bottle whiskey Dick felt acrylic nails dig harshly into the pressed arm of his suit. The woman's meager grip turned him toward her and all of her glittering glory. She obviously didn't understand that a glaring scarlet gown was a poor choice in funeral attire. "Do you think Brucie would have minded if I took this?" The woman batted her eyes coyly as she dangled a beautiful pearl necklace just a few inches from Dick's face, his passive and patient mask warping violently.
He'd only seen that string of pearls a hand full times, most of which when he passed their image on the portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Snatching the necklace with a tender hand he sent a glare toward the woman, one Bruce would have been proud of.
"Alfred!"
The finely clad English man seemed to instantaneously appear at his side, eyes weary as he accessed the woman set before him.
"Please escort this thieving woman and all others not specifically invited to the burial service out of the manor. Have Mr. Kent ensure they aren't filching any of Bruce's prized possessions on the way out." Turning on his heel Dick flashed the pearls just within the trusty butler's line of sight, satisfied by the murderous spark he saw ignite behind the other's eyes.
"Oh and have you seen my brothers?" Dick had noticed the steady disappearances of his adoptive siblings all afternoon, the last time he'd seen even a glimpse of them had been nearly half an hour ago.
While corralling the somewhat fussy crowd of money grubbers Dick heard a muffled yet distinctly accented call about taking refuge in the kitchen.
"Refuge?" Shaking his head as if to dispel an unpleasant thought he slipped through the thankfully thinning crowd.
None of the gatherings remaining guests seemed the type to give Dick any trouble as he strode nearly to the other side of the manor. He was immensely grateful that despite their normal attire of brightly sewn uniforms the leaguers had gone the traditional rout of dark navies and blacks. It was a sad day when the fashion challenged members of the JLA had a greater sense of style than the world's money elite.
Dodging past the den to avoid any sight of the closed coffin within it Dick advanced toward the kitchen. The arched slabs of oak that were normally thrown open to allow access to the kitchen from both the dining room and main hallway were steadfastly shut. How, Dick wasn't entirely sure. Those doors weren't exactly meant to be functional seeing as they easily had to weigh a ton each and arched upward a good single story.
However the amassed group of J'onn, Clark, Diana, and Arthur seemingly standing guard provided enough of an answer. Slipping through the opening Clark wordlessly provided, Dick stopped cold at the sight that met him, falling back against the solid wood heavily.
Jason had his back to him, surrounded by a soft halo of sunlight as he basked silently before the floor length bay windows. Tim was seated at the table. His feet propped up and chair leaned on its back legs while he supported his head with three fingers pushed to his temple, the unoccupied arm crossed over his lap. And Damian was seated on the top of the cabinets with his head bowed in an almost bird like fashion as he overlooked the piled high trays of lasagna, lemon bars, and various other cling wrapped concoctions.
"It's a stupid custom to bring food for the dead, is it not?"
Tim buried his palm in his head and Jason didn't so much as turn toward the little bird, Dick guessed the question fell to him, as did everything. "The food is for us Damian." Piercing blue-gray eyes glanced at him dubiously. "Twenty-seven lasagnas, four trays of lemon bars, two blueberry pies, and thirteen chicken casseroles all for us? We don't actually have to eat it do we Grayson?" Offering out his arms to catch Damian as he leapt from his vantage point Dick shook his head.
"Supes is going to drop most of it off at the homeless shelter after the service…" Setting the little bird down on the marble tile Dick turned his expectant gaze toward the two others who remained in practically the same position as they had been.
"It's time…"
Each step felt too easy considering the emotional difficulty of the task at hand. The actual physical weight Dick carried like nothing more than maybe a soda can. His grip on the polished coffins handle was a meager one, each of the overly plentiful pallbearers knew full well that with Clark among them supporting the empty wooden box themselves was a moot point.
Dick was upfront, Jason on the opposite side and Tim directly behind him. Clark completed Dick's side of the coffin, Hal and Barry stood behind Jason with Oliver bringing up the very end. Damian had come to the reluctant conclusion he was too short to bear the coffin.
It was a surprisingly smooth procession from the front steps of the manor to the family cemetery where a slab of land had been chipped away by Jason's own hands between the graves of Bruce's parents and his own that still stood despite his resurrection. Each of their grief heavy strides fell in step with one another. And around the seemingly impossible image of Batman's death amassed the people who had come to know and care for his calloused ways.
Chilly spring breezes whipped through the long stalks of grass. Blonde, silver, black, and ginger hair alike waved wildly as sunlight set tears aglow like diamonds. It was peaceful, beautiful even and not a thing like Dick had imagined. The week's earlier storms which had fit the dark brooding sense of nature he had expected had long since moved eastward. Part of him, the part raised by John and Mary relished the brightness. But the thoughts that spoke of him as an orphan once again screamed bloody blue outrage that the world would be sick enough to make such a devastating event filled with sunshine.
The service was somewhat short, no one able to find a word or phrase suited to the impossible task of summing up the entire life of a single man. But Dick was unsurprised to find he had the task of putting it into perspective. With the roses laid and dirt in the process of reclaiming its rightful home the eldest son cleared his throat.
"He was a father, though not always a great one, he was a father all the same. He was a son to not one but two great men." A tear slipped free from an old English man's eye. "A cranky yet reliable friend. Bruce was flawed and scarred as any man. Still he was a savior to many and a hero to some. The charitable Bruce Wayne, the goddamn Batman." Wiping his eyes on the cuff of his sleeve he watched through blurry eyes as Damian set down the final bouquet of red roses by the grave marker, careful not to obscure the simple engraving of "Beloved."
Jason dug the grave. Tim carved the stone. Damian laid the flowers. Dick gave the speech. Each one part to the crushing process of an entire funeral.
A few people lingered by the freshly turned ground, wanting to say a private goodbye. But not them, the birds of the bat swept onward like Bruce had taught them. Through a flurry of condolences heard a thousand times over they marched back toward the looming estate.
Tim rushed ahead, disappearing into the deepest most forgotten halls to avoid the scrutiny and or concern of his brothers. Each of them needed time to mourn for Bruce away from their collective family; they all needed an individual moment to come to terms.
Damian lingered outside, gazing at the distant cemetery with obvious bitterness. "It's stupid, the coffin was empty anyway. We could have at least filled it with his shoes or something…" Ruffling his neatly slicked hair Dick let the young bird brood, though he was careful to keep a time limit on it. Little D was too young to be his father.
Of all people it was Jason who didn't stray off, sticking a fair distance from Dick with an impassive face.
"The will?"
Dick had almost forgotten about it, glancing at his brother he shook his head.
"Later. Tonight let's…let's," He was at a loss having not had an unoccupied night for at least a decade.
"Let's get shit-faced." One could almost hear the bitter smirk in Jason's voice, and for once Dick did not argue his brother's crude suggestion.
AN: Just a heads up for drinking, foul mouths, and brilliant stupidity in the next chapter. Love as always to the reviewers, and before I go I just gotta say how awesome it was to see Nightwing on YJ. Kinda sucks that Jason always gets skipped over in the animated series though. Cest la vie.