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It’s a rainy day. It’s not a thunderstorm or anything, but it’s enough rain that everything’s wet, puddles scattered around.
Hughie holds Robin’s hand as they walk away from the car, parked at the curb. She walks beside him, a little clumsy—she almost trips over a clump of wet grass, then regains her footing.
Definitely my kid, Hughie thinks, fond.
“You alright?”
“Yep,” she says, cheery. She smiles up at him and he smiles back, and they keep walking.
They navigate through the tombstones, but it doesn’t take long—Hughie knows where they’re going.
Annie didn’t question him when he said he was going to take Robin to the graveyard. She got a somewhat solemn look on her face, but she nodded, understanding, and didn’t say anything of it.
Robin hasn’t been here before. He didn’t feel like she was old enough before, really.
They walk up to the tombstone—William Butcher. It’s older, though not quite worn. It has been a long time and no time at all, hasn’t it?
Hughie crouches down, closer to the tombstone and closer to Robin’s face. She looks at him. Her eyes look a bit curious, like always, but she doesn’t ask a question yet.
“Robin,” he starts, then clears his throat—gestures at the tombstone. “Billy Butcher was a—he was a friend of mine, a long time ago. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” she says. She looks at Butcher’s tombstone, eyeing it. She lightly touches it, then draws back.
“It’s wet,” she says, and Hughie laughs, quiet.
“It’s raining, sweetie,” he says. She nods, like that makes it all make sense.
She’s just a little kid still, Hughie thinks. Still innocent. Still curious and sweet and kind.
And as much as I can help it, she’ll never lose that, he thinks.
“Today’s Butcher’s birthday—well, would be,” he says. He tries to keep his voice steady, calm. “I—I think. He only told me once, and I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, so. I don’t know how old he would be, either.”
“I thought he was your friend, daddy,” Robin says. “Don’t friends tell each other their birthdays?”
“Sometimes,” he says. He thinks about the blood on his hands from everyone, from Butcher. Tries to get it out of his head.
“Sometimes friends just talk about other things and don’t get around to telling each other their birthdays.”
“How’d he die, dad?” Robin asks. She looks at him with wide eyes. Hughie’s chest and his throat and his heart feel tight.
“He got—he got into some bad things, Robin,” he says, slow, trying to be calculated. “And—and he passed away because of it.”
“Oh,” she says, then, “Do you miss your friend?”
Hughie looks at Butcher’s tombstone. Stares for a second.
“Yeah,” he says. He stands up, and he takes Robin’s hand again. “I think I do.”
“Happy birthday, friend,” Robin says, quiet, soft.
“Happy birthday, Butcher,” Hughie whispers, and he squeezes Robin’s hand a little tighter.