Chapter Text
Last Time.
Peter stands in silence as Bruce Wayne gives a speech.
He didn’t know Neal-Dick. He didn’t know Dick like the people here. Did these people even care? They certainly weren’t whispering amongst themselves.
Bruce Wayne speaks in formal, structured sentences. Nothing like the ditzy man who has a hundred one night stands. His eyes flicker to Peter, and Peter sees the intelligence, the sharp calculation in his eyes, and for a second Bruce Wayne looks conflicted.
Peter doesn’t care.
All hes been told is that Dick Grayson is dead.
He doesn’t know what to do.
“Dick was an incredible son, brother, and hero. My love for him wasn’t always clear, but it was immeasurable,” Wayne finishes, and he steps off the stage, expression unreadable. Hero?
Peter just missed his friend. Was Neal Dick’s true personality?
He has a feeling it wasn’t, not quite, and the thought makes him feel sick.
-
Everything passes by in a flash. Everyones wearing black, and the silence is astounding.
Everyone seems in still shock, and Peter half expects Dick to come out and crack a joke to brighten the mood, because no way he was dead, dead, dead, right?
He was young, too.
Twenty-seven.
-
Eventually, Peter can’t take any more of the silence, because he’s realized that he’s not been invited to the public party, but the private one.
Usually these places are filled with paparazzi, chattering men and women who give their apologies before returning to whatever insignificant thing they were discussing.
None of that is visible.
Its just suffocating mourning.
Peter sees the Waynes drowning in grief in a corner, two redheads hiding their faces.
Wayne’s face is stony. An old man closes his eyes and sits down on a chair, mouth hardened in a thin line.
A man with a shocking white streak glares at the floor fists in his pockets, and a teen who seems less than eighteen holds himself in a pathetic self hug before an asian woman wraps her arms around him and a blonde.
And the child. He’s not bawling, or looking confused, like Peter expected.
No, he’s staring at the coffin, like he understands the meaning of death.
But how could he, a child so young?
No one holds him.
He sits there, eyes staring straight ahead, and for a moment, Peter can feel his grief, what he’s lost, before the child reaps it all back in and closes his eyes.
Peter doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t try to.
A tall, pink-haired woman with orange skin puts a hand on the red haired woman.
A sign that meant, ‘ It’s okay. I’m here. ‘
A sign Dick used to use on Peter.
Peter basks in the fact that his friend is dead.
-
Peter visits Dick’s grave for the first time in weeks. He visits daily, and before he arrives theres always flowers on the grave.
The kid’s there.
“Hi,” Peter voices, but the kid doesn’t reply. He doesn’t push, setting down the carnations on the grave.
“Do you miss him?” Peter asks, and the kid turns to him.
Its a simple question, yet carried so much weight.
The kid nods, leaning against the stone, hand blocking the ray of sunlight as the sky turns into a pinkish-purple gradient.
“He’s gone, just for a while.” Peter wants to provide some sort of comfort. The kid was obviously close with Dick.
“I know.” And it’s not an agreement.
Its a statement.
Peter feels the urge to agree, to fuel the kid’s fantasy.
The kid doesn’t look dreamy or regretful.
He looks determined.
“Do not fret. The man will be up and irritating in a few weeks time.” And it’s different, the way he talks.
“You’re Daniel,” Peter breathes out. How did it take him this long? There’s something special about the kid.
Daniel looks confused, before seeming to understand.
“Who else would I be? Now come on, dig his body out. We’ll bring him to the Lazarus Pits. God forbid any of us stay deceased.” Peter doesn’t get to say a word before Daniel brings out a shovel and starts digging the grave.