Bit of a shorter chapter this time, but we're finally transitioning slowly into the Beyond era whoo~

But just go to bed now you crazy kid
You'll be alright I know come morning time
Just let the moon rise and the sun go down
Don't let the hard times make you feel alone

-Family of the Year, "Find It"

Between.

Gotham cemetery. A place of mourning and memory. A young man exited out from a taxi cab after paying the driver's fare, watching its tracks roll away through faintly falling snow before facing the metal gate. Winter had set upon Gotham early this year, and he idly adjusted his scarlet scarf – a single splash of color amidst the gray. …In his hands he held a similar sign of vibrance, in the form of a ruby bouquet of blossoms.

With a sigh, he steeled himself, and creaked open the steel spokes, trudging up the hill towards his destination. On his way, he passed by a huge headstone that bore the unmistakable marker of a single surname carved in bold: Wayne. He paused, uncertain, as he silently bowed his head for a minute to pay polite respects, before moving on.

When he reached his real objective (coincidentally located not too far away), he lamented a little with gnawing guilt at the sight of brown and overgrown weeds shrouding the spot, enduring despite choking chill. There was no marble slab, no erect monument of honor to stand proud the test of time – but a single plate embedded in the earth. He bent down and parted the plants, brushing off a light layer of white dust to reveal its ephemeral epitaph, running his fingers solemnly over the minimal inscription:

Steven Drake

Husband and Father

19XX – 200X

There was another grave beside it with an analogous engraving. He dutifully swept it clear as well, before gently laying the flowers down between the two. Stepping back, he shoved his palms in his pockets, breathing out in belated greeting.

"Hi, Mom. Hey, Dad. It's been a while."

He rubbed the back of his hair awkwardly, overwhelmingly aware of just how long it had been since he'd given his own kin any kind thought, having made zero effort to dig up the dirt of an even more distant past. Per his own personal request, Mr. Wayne had spared him any fancy funeral proceedings, employing but a simple ceremony and privately hired preacher. Burying his father's bloated, barely recognizable blue corpse in a closed casket after importing it back from Metropolis, in order to let his body's spirit rest in Gotham hallowed ground at least – at "home". …Bruce had held his hand the entire time though, and the long overdue tears from that day threatened to descend now at the recollection. He shook his head though and swallowed firmly, struggling to find a way to broach conversation, make up for lost time.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited often. I guess I'm still mad at you for a lot of things," he grudgingly admitted, mostly addressing the male side of the equation. "But… I know you did what you felt you had to in order to support Mom and me, all on your own."

He focused on the paternal plaque by his feet – not quite in forgiveness just yet, but understanding sympathy at least. Having seen and experienced how truly horrible a "parent" could be firsthand, he had a better appreciation now for some blessings, however small.

"I don't know if you've been watching from… wherever you are. So I guess I'll just start at the beginning. After you left, Bruce Wayne found me and took me in. You know, the big-shot billionaire? He… gave me a job. The best job in the world, I thought. I… was really good at it too. Things were great, for a while. I was honestly happy. And…" He hesitated. "You would've been proud of me, I think. …If you'd only been there to see."

Glassy eyes masked in mist, lifting a lugubrious look to the clouded, crying sky. Dull and monochrome. Monotone.

"But… I messed up. Bad. I mean: really, really screwed up. I made the biggest mistake of my life, and it cost everything and everyone I love. I… did something terrible. Something you never even had the guts to do."

His knuckles clenched tightly, reminiscing.

"Before you disappeared, you said something to me. You probably thought I was asleep, but I heard you. You… said that I'd be 'okay'. That I had 'something special', something you 'never had'."

He lowered his gaze, returning resentfully to reality.

"You were wrong though. I'm not special," he spat in hindsight, acknowledging the full irony of the forecasting statement. "And I'm sure as hell not okay."

Biting his lip, he exhaled, letting it go.

"But… I'm doing better now. Since then anyway. Things have changed. I've got a new job – a legit one, that's not breaking any laws," he almost laughed in mocking jest at the notion. "-with decent salary and benefits, can afford a fairly nice place of my own; a 'stable' income life and all that normal shit. In general, I suppose you could say things are… pretty 'all right' at the moment. I've even made some really good friends, who helped me get back on my feet after that. And I… met a girl: Her name's Stephanie. You'd like her, she's got what you'd call 'spunk'."

He smiled softly.

"We're getting married soon, in the spring. I… wish you could be there. Both of you."

A beat, before quietly adding:

"All of you."

…He whispered.

"I want you to know: No matter what, you're still my Dad. Bru- Mr. Wayne could never replace you. …He tried though, he really did. I… don't blame him for that. So, please – try not to hate him too."

His fist tautened in determination.

"Even so, I won't be like you. And I won't be like him either. I'm… gonna find my own way from now on. Stay straight, stay clean yada yada. Stay 'strong' – gold and all that crap."

Reflecting back, he mused.

"In the end, maybe that's what you were trying to do too. The right thing. Show ol' Pukeface who's boss, protect me and this whole goddamn city. And paid the price for it. …Or maybe you were just trying to save your own skin." He shrugged. "Guess I'll never know at this point."

Scratching his scruff again through the scarf, he found himself running out of things to say. He thought there'd be a lot more mean and angry words to let out, finally get completely off his chest; cruel criticism for all the accumulated sins committed by every contributing party involved, more bitterness built up after all this time… But somehow it didn't seem worth it anymore.

"I suppose that's all I wanted to come to talk about, for now. I'll stop by again. And… I'll bring her with me next time, so you can meet her."

Bidding farewell for the time being, he turned and trekked back through the gathering slush towards the entrance. Crunching through ice and frost as he walked purposefully past cracked, pious structures and beneath the barren branches of trees, limbs stripped of life and leaves but still surviving – clinging on desperately by the roots. So too were the touchstone memorials, the ones still being devotedly cared for by loved ones left behind. (Like hidden trophy cases submerged just as deep underground, concealed in cold storage – frozen stasis – within a closeted cave. …Maybe, it might be more accurate to refer to it as a "mausoleum" than a "museum" at this stage, given the curator's penchant for creeping about at night, as if a wandering ghost himself. Maintaining appearance as a haunting host for no one, no reason other than to selfishly serve his own death-seeking crusade – grimly reaping what he'd sown.) …So as not to forget where they've been and where they came from – a permanent, palimpsest reminder that someone was, in fact, 'here'.

He didn't get very far though before he came upon another fresh set of slightly larger prints beside his own, trailing to a stop before the towering tomb he bypassed earlier.

…

Blooming like budding drops of blood at its shadow's base was something that wasn't there before:

It was a pair of red roses.

I say goodbye as it fades away
Out past those trees I'm gonna find my way
Please don't be scared for me
I'm big and I'm strong
You had to know that I would leave all along