Work Text:
The coffin is painfully small and Bruce’s heart breaks when he looks at it. It reminds him of the day he lost his parents, like any other funeral, except today was much, much worse. Damian was his son. He was so young, even younger than Jason that day. He was just a child. Despite all his training, his dangerous and poisonous words of confidence, despise how little of a childhood he had before he was forced into a harsh reality of murder and assassination, he was no more than a child. He was. He is no longer here, to hear it. Bruce doesn’t let himself cry. Not until the rain starts to cover his tears. He must be strong for his other children.
The coffin is placed carefully above the ground, and they all can see their boy. They all can see his pained face. They can see the shock. The betrayal. Bruce can’t possibly know what his son was thinking in his moment of death. He hasn’t known for the past two years. But somehow, he’s sure what it was. Why isn’t Father coming to save me? Why am I dying alone? Why did I deserve this? But at the same time, he looks calm. He looks like he was ready the moment it happened. He looks like he accepted it years ago and Bruce’s heart hurts painfully at the thought. What happened to my son?
Dick sobs loudly in the corner, and he can’t help but start sobbing himself. His oldest and youngest children were always close, spending nights and days together, patrolling and talking about nothing at all, but it meant everything to them. Dick always knew how to read Damian and what to say. He came to defend the boy whenever he got in trouble and he couldn’t pretend he didn’t see the way Damian’s eyes brightened when Dick was around.
He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel, now. When Tim rushed up the stairs, he was furious. When he saw Damian, he… felt despair. He felt miserable. He didn’t even notice the suit, at first. He didn’t care about blood and dust, clutching the body to his chest. The boy was cold, and his eyes were distant. He’s not there. Hasn’t been for a long time. He wants to scream.
He knows it will come to an end, eventually. He knows at some point he’ll have to stop grieving. He’ll have to find out how that happened. Why that happened. How Tim could possibly know. How Cass could possibly know. How he couldn’t listen to them when they needed him so desperately to hear them out.
He’ll have to face the consequences of his own failures.
But for now, he grieves silently.
Jason looks at the body with lost, blank eyes. They seem almost as crazed as the day he climbed out of the Lazarus Pit, coughing the liquid out of his lungs. He feels like he died again. He doesn’t feel anything at the same time. It hurts, for some reason. He’s thought the kid was dead this entire time. But the confirmation still burns a hole in his chest. With the kind of fire that is cold, that stalks you from the grave. He shivers at the thought and he wants to protest desperately. He can’t allow it. He doesn’t want Damian there, in a small, barely fitting wooden box, buried under a ton of dirt. He doesn’t care if he wakes up in his coffin or not. He doesn’t want this for anyone. He tries to scream at them, to yell, to stop, but the sound gets stuck in his throat. His eyes widen.
God, what has he done?
The kid seemed so fragile, yet so certain in his death. And he… continued his brother’s 'legacy', though in a twisted way. He almost wants to laugh at the thought. What a joke.
God, if you’re there, curse this fucking red eyed suit. He always knew that thing would only bring problems. He suggested to burn it down multiple times, but Dick never listened. Well, he probably regrets it now. As if he didn’t before. Red X is never mentioned without regret. Never will be.
And he… he regrets too.
(“No one missed you, you know. You can go back to hell or whatever.” He hissed out.
Red X flinched.)
He clenches his fist.
Not a single muscle moves on his face.
Tim watches from a distance, cautious to come closer. He already got too close. He’s been too far away his whole life. Out of reach. Maybe, that’s how he’ll have to pay. Now he won’t have a chance to ever get close. In that case, he’s more than ready to accept the punishment.
Cass touches his shoulder, catching his train of thought. She looks him in the eyes and he sees the world crushing in them. His sister has seen so much. She never shared. Maybe, she was good at keeping secrets. Maybe, there was no one to listen.
“How long?” he can’t help but ask, and she looks at him questionably. “How long have you known?” his voice breaks as he whispers. This is so, so, so wrong.
“A year,” she replies steadily, loud enough that he would hear, but still too silent for those who don’t need to hear. “You?”
The question catches him off guard.
What’s the meaning in keeping secrets from Cass?
“I knew since week two,” he confesses unexpectedly even to himself. But, to face the fact, yes. He knew when Red X was born. He just didn’t believe himself.
She nods in understanding. They don’t talk after that.
Barbara moves closer to Dick, and she doesn’t even spare him a glance. She doesn’t need to look at him. She knows he looks terrible, he looks tired. She does, too. Tears fall from her cheeks and she wonders when was the last time she cried like this. Maybe, it was when Bruce seemed dead? Not really, though. Maybe, it was when Jason died. Yes, it’s more like that. She felt empty that day, too. Maybe, it was when… when she woke up in the hospital bed, that one day. She shakes her head and prefers not to think about it. She looks at the body before her. It doesn’t seem real. She can’t stand that.
She closes her eyes and bites her lip. If she wouldn’t, she would scream. She knows it too well. She remembers.
The memory blurs, just like her reflection in the water.
She never saw it like he did.
Dick feels broken, for a moment. The moment that lasts forever. The moment that imprisons you and drags you underground. He knows he must fight it, he has people to fight for. But one of them is dead. And he doesn’t know how to fight anymore. He feels Babs sitting beside him. He doesn’t look at her. He knows they don’t need to look at each other to know it. They lost. They will try again, later. But for now, they have nothing to do. So they stand still. He thinks about the past and it crushes him. He doesn’t stop thinking. He doesn’t want the memories to die, too. He promised. He’s not a liar.
(“I’ll always be there for you”.)
He’s a liar.
Sometimes, words are like a robin. You should think before letting them out. They will be impossible to catch afterwards.
And his robin flew away.
He feels his soul burn, and he knows where to direct that fire. If only he was better, it would be different. If only he didn’t make mistakes. They’re always deadly. He never was perfect. He should’ve been. If only he listened to Jason, for once. He always knew better. If only he didn’t play like a child with lives, like they didn’t mean anything. If only there was no Red X. If only he knew. No, he knew. The day someone else got it the first time, he knew. The day someone else died in that suit he knew it was deadly. The day he created it, he knew this thing can take a life. Just not his. Today, he feels like his life was indeed taken.
Later this night, he’ll burn it. The flames will scream, and he will kill the past. He will never kill the memories.
But for now, for now they just stand still.
Alfred’s somewhere behind them all with Steph. He sighs silently, but doesn’t say a word. His eyes shine with pain and exhaustion. He doesn’t speak. Just picks up an umbrella as he feels the clouds thicken and hands it to Stephanie. She nods gratefully and quietly walks up to Tim and Cass. She opens the umbrella as the little water drops start falling from the sky, hiding all three of them from the world. It’s cold like any other day in Gotham. Today, they all feel the blood in their veins freeze.
Her heart skips a beat, before the dam finally breaks and she screams in pain, tears watering her face. Cass picks up the dropped umbrella and Tim hugs her to his chest. This isn’t fair. He didn’t even try all her favorite waffles.
Tim buries his hand in her hair, trying to soothe the pain, until he breaks down himself. For the first time in years. He cries. He feels cold tears escaping his eyes and he doesn’t try to stop them. Cassandra stalks closer with the opened umbrella. Her own hand shakes and she sighs tiredly. Today, she lost a piece of herself.
The coffin is lowered to the ground and everyone’s eyes are on it. As the first heap of dirt hides the wooden material beneath it, Jason closes his unblinking eyes. He doesn’t notice the cold water drops soaking him soul-deep. He doesn’t hear the thunder growl. He doesn’t notice someone covering him with an umbrella. He doesn’t care that it’s Bruce. He wants to wake up. He doesn’t want to acknowledge this reality. It has to be a dream. It has to be a nightmare.
It isn’t.
Alfred finishes giving out umbrellas and stands back. He stares at his family, his son’s family and he sees the despair, the misery. His hand doesn’t reach out for an umbrella, and he lets the rain cool down his burning soul. So much pain, in so little years. He remembers all the funerals he attended in a similar manner and he feels old. There were too many coffins in the backyard of the Wayne manor. There was too much pain.
He only opens his eyes to see someone holding an umbrella above him. He only softly nods to Cassandra, noticing that everyone else has left. They go inside. He knows that tonight, someone will come to the grave and scream in pain. He knows that he should prevent that person from staying under the rain all night. But this time, he isn’t sure this person isn’t going to be him.
There isn’t a single journalist at the funeral.
Somehow, the whole world ends up talking about it the next morning.
—————————
Robin’s funeral is more symbolic than anything else. A statement.
There is no body in the coffin. There’s only a giant statue in the center of the room. It has sweet words written at the pedestal. Brave hero. Good friend. Honorable member of the Teen Titans. The Boy Wonder. Loved brother and son. All of them are true. None of them really mean anything.
There are speeches and condolences, there are bright words and sorrow. There is no familial grief. There is despair and there is disbelief. There is formality. There are no pained screams and silent, panicked tears.
The event is big. It’s hosted in a giant hall in one of the Justice League’s old main bases. It’s got a lot of gold and flowers, there’s old orchestral music playing on the background, soothing the sadness and loss. There are many visitors, and most of them didn’t ever get the chance to meet Damian when he still was alive. The Teen Titans are there, too, and he can see Koriand’r distantly placing a bouquet of flowers to the pedestal, wiping tears from her red cheeks, eyes tired of crying. He can see other team members, too. He can see those who knew his son. He can see the new ones. They don’t know anything. Still, they grieve, as everyone else does. They grieve a hero. A symbol. They don’t grieve a person. A human being. They grieve history.
Hours pass as Bruce stands in a corner, unwilling to interact with anyone until his time to speak comes. He can’t afford breaking down another time. He knows Damian wouldn’t want his Father to be like this.
Then the moment comes, and he comes up the stage. And everyone looks at him. And he feels lost. Because, truly, what is there to say? Everyone knows Robin without further speeches. Everyone present in the room has their own reason for grief, sadness and disbelief. But he still reads the written text mechanically. He doesn’t let anything sincere flood his mind. If it will, it will leak through with pained tears.
He comes back into the crowd, eventually. And then he flees. He escapes the somehow loud room full of silent whispers and finds himself at an empty balcony. He feels cold wind freezing his face as he looks at the stars in the skies. He feels someone’s hand on his shoulder and he allows himself to melt into it. Because there, he isn’t Batman. There, he’s a grieving father, Bruce Wayne. And there, he isn’t with Superman. He’s with his old friend, Clark Kent. A person whose son was close to Damian. Whose son was close to being where Damian is. He allows himself to melt into the touch. Just because he’s human. Because they are.
Robin is a symbol. A history. A legacy. Robin is a hero, a savior. He’s a light in the dark, a laughter in the silence. Robin is hope.
And hope is dead.
—————————
When he opens his eyes, he’s surrounded by something light. It’s light blue, cyan, purple at times. It’s translucent. It shines and blinds him. It fills his ears and muffles everything he hears. It’s almost like water. He doesn’t need to blink. He doesn’t need to breathe, inside the liquid. The flows transfer him somewhere, to nowhere. Everything around him is distant and unchanging. It’s all the same bluish sight around, and he keeps calm. He doesn’t feel or hear his heart beating in his chest, but it’s probably okay. He doesn’t feel his chest, too. In fact, he doesn’t have legs, or arms, or a head. He hears things, sometimes. They’re blurry, hard to make out, but they’re familiar. Ringing bells. Shattered glass. Laughter. Rain. Sometimes, he hears voices. He doesn’t understand what they say, but they sound soothing. They make him feel less lost, floating in this ocean. Sometimes, he thinks he sees stars. They’re bright and shiny and so happy. Just like his Sun. The one he abandoned. The voices grow sad, so he stops paying attention to them. He doesn’t want to hear them. He gets farther and farther, and the sounds get more silent and distant with time. He isn’t sure if it’s another thousand of years or just a second that it takes, but he doesn’t care. He starts seeing more stars. And the world grows brighter.
Then, he feels like he wakes up. All he sees is darkness. He tries to move, to understand where he is. His body doesn’t obey. He quickly reminds himself that he doesn’t have one.
Next time he opens his eyes, it’s all green.