Archive of Our Own

December 31st, New Year's Eve.

Snow fell in Gotham City the way it did in picture-postcards, alighting on lampposts and cars and frost-bitten noses. At intervals, wind whistled through the trees, and the city light cut through the blitz. In the late afternoon, Dick made his trek in the snow and wind and light on his way to an important event. A party, of a kind. Not quite a gala, and not quite not a gala. The important distinction, anyway, was not that. It was that Bruce was hosting the event. And Dick, by god, was going to see Bruce today.

He crossed the street towards the end of the road, near to the penthouse where Bruce lived. In the adjacent shopping centre, he knew there to be a flower shop. A good, reputable one.

"Welcome in," the wizened old lady at the counter said when he walked in. Ostensibly, this was the owner of the shop. "Is there something in particular you're looking for?"

"Yes," he said. "For a good friend."

"And I suppose you're very fond of this friend?"

"You could say that."

She took into account his preferences, and for a good chunk of change, the lady made him a bouquet. This, Dick hoped, would pass for a housewarming gift. It was a New Year's party, after all, and it would hardly be fitting if he showed up without something to ring in the New Year. That is what he told himself.

The truth was that the bouquet was more of a personal gift, and as thus, carried a personal meaning. Not that Dick would acknowledge as such, even to himself. It was better he concern himself with other matters. Namely, getting to the party on time. Bruce would hate it if he was late.

He turned the corner, and took the lesser known side entrance that led up to the penthouse, reserved for those with special access to the Wayne building. The elevator shot him up to the top floor, where Bruce made his residence as of late. Standing by the door, he turned the bouquet over in his hands. Seasonal, resilient for winter — the kind of artistry Bruce would appreciate. He smiled to himself. Nice going.

Soon, he rang the doorbell and the door opened to the sight of Bruce's figure. He stood tall in a crisp black suit, one of his more casual pieces. The perfect outfit for the occasion, as always. Such was his reputation. Brucie Wayne, best dressed.

"Dick," Bruce greeted. "You're early."

"Nice to see you too, Bruce," Dick teased. "Can I come in?"

Bruce ushered him through.

The entrance hall was wide, with a table near the door to receive gifts and store whatever sundry items needed to be kept on hand. Dick laid his flowers on the table, tied with a little bow and accompanied by a card, and stepped back to rejoin Bruce. He clapped a hand on his shoulder for good measure, so he didn't seem awkward.

Bruce quirked an eyebrow at him, gesturing to the flowers. "Aren't you being sentimental?" His tone of voice was dry, and his wit shone through. Dick's heart did a flip.

"Can't a guy show some appreciation every so once in a while?"

The curve of Bruce's lips turned up in a smirk. "Of course he can."

Dick coughed into his fist. "Anyway, how about the party? Who all is coming?"

"The usual suspects," Bruce said.

"How forthcoming," Dick remarked. "And you'll be busy all evening?"

"Did you have something you needed to talk about with me?"

Maybe, Dick intended to say. There were quite a few things he needed to talk about with Bruce, and never had the chance to. Tonight may be as good a time as any — provided, he got the opportunity.

Just then, the doorbell rang. It was the first guests of the evening. Bruce showed them in, and Dick took it as his opportunity to disappear within the recesses of the place. Somehow, he'd get the opportunity to talk to Bruce.

The hours whittled by. One hour turned into two turned into three, and Dick had no sight of Bruce. He supposed it was to be expected. Bruce had to make up for being a recluse most of the year somehow, and there was no better way to do that than to be a proactive host.

Dick hid out in the spare bedroom, which no one occupied. It had a nice view. Here, he could watch the snow fall over the rooftops of Gotham City, the stars twinkling somewhere in the great distance. From time to time, he stuck his head out and he chatted with a few people he recognized. But by the end of the night, he was back at the window, gazing over Gotham.

This was where Bruce found him.

He didn't say anything. He sat next to Dick, looking out the window at the snow over Gotham. He pointed out places and Dick nodded along. He knew precisely what Bruce meant without a word being exchanged between them.

There was the rooftop where Dick had tried his grappling gun for the first time. The children's orphanage they visited. A factory they'd kept from exploding. Hallmarks of their history together.

It made Dick feel warm inside. Side by side with Bruce, he felt like he really belonged somewhere. Maybe he could tell him. Not to the extent of revealing everything, but maybe he could just hint. Did it hurt to hint?

Just then, Bruce spoke up. "It's getting close to midnight."

Dick came out of his reverie. Right. Midnight. It was New Year's. Another year was passing him by. It was fine. Always, it was fine. He didn't need anything to change.

"Are you staying for the countdown?" Bruce asked.

He hesitated. He could stay. It could be just him and Bruce, after the party ended, sitting in the window like this again. Maybe they could start talking. Maybe they'd talk about life. Their real, actual, inner lives.

It sounded terrifying.

"No, I'd better not," Dick said. "You know how it is. Work to do."

Bruce nodded, solemn. It was true for the both of them. They had great responsibility settled on both their shoulders.

He walked Dick to the door. With a wave, he said, "See you later, chum," and Dick was on his way.

On the way home, Dick felt like Cinderella stumbling away without her shoe. He'd been so close to saying what was on his mind. In the span of just a few seconds, he could have ruined his life. What if he'd said it? What if he'd said those words — 'I love you'? He could have squandered everything.

What was he thinking?

It was a good thing, he thought, that he was going home. It wasn't too late to go on patrol. There was plenty of time left in the night to spend on pursuits divorced from his innermost feelings.

With his mind made, he suited up. Pulling on the costume felt already like a ritual in renewal. He wasn't going to think about what he might've said or done. He was going to focus on the city, its pulsing beat, and get work done.

It was cathartic. By the end of the night he felt reasonably accomplished.

He crawled into his window and changed out of his costume into pyjamas. Washed his face. Brushed his teeth. Soon, he was asleep.

First thing in the morning, his phone lit up. It was an unknown number. Dick wondered who it was. A spam caller, maybe. A telemarketer. He got those calls by the dozen. There was always some grifter trying to sell him something. He felt for them, truly. Gotham City was a hard place. It was easy to get down on your luck. But that didn't mean he wanted them to keep calling.

He declined the call. Seconds later, his phone buzzed again. It was the same number. His finger wavered over the decline button. Was someone trying to reach him? What if it was something important?

Once more, he declined the call. His phone buzzed a third time. This time, he decided to answer.

"Hello, is this Mr. Grayson?"

"That's me. What is this about?"

"I'm Officer Rikes, with the Gotham City Police Department. We have some unfortunate news for you."

His heart stilled. Unfortunate news. He could hardly think what it could be. Did he have some involvement in a case he didn't know about yet? Had something awful happened? He listened in silence, waiting for the officer to tell him.

Officer Rikes continued. "We need you to come down to the morgue and identify a body. An accident occurred."

Dick felt the room swim before his eyes. "What accident? Who?" His own words sounded faint in his ears.

"A Mr. Bruce Wayne. I understand you knew him intimately. He passed away last night. We need you to come in to positively identify the body."

The sickness in his stomach grew. He swallowed a lump in his throat. It was getting harder and harder to speak. "Passed away? He's dead?"

"I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Grayson."

"It can't be."

"I'm afraid, Mr. Grayson, that it is true."

"What did he die of?"

"Asphyxiation."

Asphyxiation!

Dick drove his car to the morgue in a trance. Just last night, he had seen Bruce himself, talked with him, touched him with his own two hands. He was alive, then. And now he wasn't. It hardly felt real. It never felt real to anyone, he supposed. And yet it was such a strange thing. How could this have happened? With his line of work, he'd imagined facing death a hundred times. A thousand times. He'd had his demise dangled in front of him, like a carrot on a stick, night after night. But that was him. Even if they were in the same circumstances, never before had he entertained the notion that Bruce was mortal, that he was flesh and bones and that such a silly thing as asphyxiation could take him. What, had he choked? Had the invincible Batman choked? Some morsel of fancy food gone down the wrong way had taken Bruce from him forever? And he was supposed to believe that?

His hands gripped the wheel. He had half a mind to soar off into a ditch before he even arrived to the morgue. Bruce, gone. It was unimaginable.

Before long, he arrived in front of the hospital. It was weathered by time, and the inside, though sterile, was almost friendly in appearance. Informative posters lined the wall behind the reception desk. WASH YOUR HANDS and BEWARE PATHOGENS stared benignly at him. Beyond the posters, sat the lady at the reception desk. She was a middle-aged woman who looked like she had seen everything. She leveled him with an assessing gaze.

"Where do you need to go, sir?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. He felt like he was shell-shocked. "The morgue," he said.

"Oh. I am sorry, sir. Are you Mr. Grayson?"

"Yes, I am."

"Officer Rikes spoke to you?"

"He did."

"He'll be out to meet you soon."

Dick waited in the lobby. The stiff chair he occupied did nothing to distract him from his woe. It was all so wrong. Bruce, dead. Finished. No more. All he could see in his mind's eye was Bruce smiling at him, showing him out the door. All he could hear was him uttering those precious four words: "See you later, chum," a promise Bruce could now never make good on. All he could think about was what if. What if he'd stayed longer? What if he'd told Bruce how he felt?

Soon Officer Rikes appeared, his face schooled into professionalism. "Mr. Grayson, please come with me." He motioned for Dick to follow him and Dick did, silent the whole way. They traversed several hallways to reach the elevator, which took them down to the lowest level of the hospital. This was where the morgue was.

The inside of the morgue was spotlight-bright. Where the fluorescent lights in the rest of the hospital had been warm, these lights were piercing. It was almost as if he was preparing for his soul to be put on display. He supposed he was, vulnerable as the situation made him. He braced himself.

On a table in the middle of the room was where they conducted examinations. Here, Bruce lay. A sheet covered most of his body, with the exception of his head. This, Dick supposed, was so that he could get a better look at the corpse.

The medical examiner stood next to the body, equipped with a labcoat and gloves. She met Dick's eyes with a look of concern. "Mr. Grayson, correct?"

"Yes, that's me."

"Take your time. You can take as long or as little as you need."

He bit his lip. Never did he think he was going to be in this position someday. Standing over Bruce's body, watching his face like this. It was ironic. He always thought, for some reason, that something would happen to him first. That Bruce would find a way to outlive him. Their lives were both dangerous, there was no mincing words about that. Still, Bruce had always seemed so much more invincible than him. No, he was invincible.

He shouldn't have to be here. This shouldn't be real. He refused to believe it was real. It was sick. Bruce had thwarted death plenty of times before. He had even been dead, and arisen from the grave all the same, no different than he was before. He shouldn't be dead now, not after something so juvenile as a simple little accident. Bruce couldn't be dead.

Unfortunately, the evidence suggested otherwise.

After a while, he spoke up. "That's him," he declared. There was no other way to put it. Bruce Wayne was dead. And this time, there would be no miracle. He wasn't coming back.

The day of the funeral came bleak. It was cloudy in Gotham, with great swathes of cloud stretching dark overhead. Under the backdrop of this sky, a quiet procession made its way to the gravesite, comprised of those individuals dearest to the deceased's heart.

Dick was there, and so too with him were Tim, Barbara, Damian, and all the rest. After the morgue, he'd relayed the news without delay. Each took it to their degree of sorrow. It was so difficult to fathom Bruce Wayne staying dead.

They all stood over the casket as it was lowered into the ground. Bruce was to be buried next to his parents, as per his wishes. That was what the will had said, and so they followed it to the letter. Even in death, Bruce had such a hold on them.

At last he was returned to the earth. The proper rites were held, and so Bruce was entombed forever.

Afterwards they huddled by the grave, each person lost to their respective thoughts. The sun began to emerge from the clouds, mocking them. There was little talk until they began to leave, and then the air was suffused only with practical matters.

For one, there was the matter of what to do with Bruce's affairs. Of course a great deal had been addressed in the will, and this they'd followed to the letter. But then, seeing as there was only so much one could account for in their life before death, there were a few remaining nails to be hammered down. Tidbits and bobs to be dealt with. The chief of these was the Manor.

Who was to take care of sorting out the Manor?

It was only natural that Dick volunteered, and even more so that he refused any assistance.

"I don't need any help. I'll get everything figured out in a few weeks. Okay?"

Begrudging though they were, the others gave in. Tim, Damian, and Barbara all left him to his own devices. Alone, Dick took the car to the Manor. It was the first time he had made the journey in several years. When Alfred died, Bruce moved to the penthouse, and Wayne Manor became an impracticality. An afterthought. The very place where Dick had pined away for his mentor in his adolescent years…

As he approached the house, he felt a sense of welcoming. The house was drawing him in, as if a balm to soothe his pain. He didn't know it was possible to feel this way about Wayne Manor.

When he was a teenager, he felt, in a sense, stifled by the place. It was less that he disliked it and more so that he felt he was growing into some new phase of life where he had to discover the world again. He had known plenty of the world when his parents were alive and they'd traveled to different places with the circus. So before he knew it, what with college and the like, he drifted away from the Manor and back into the world at large.

It was a long time since he'd stayed. Yet, as he crossed the threshold, it was clear that almost nothing had changed. The place was preserved, as impeccable as the day he'd last left it.

It called to mind memories of the past.

The stairwell he'd raced up and down as a child, this or that painting or piece of furniture. He remembered evenings spent in the library waiting to go on patrol; nights spent debriefing by the fire.

Woe was he that those days were exactly that: past. A magic pill! If only he had a magic pill to turn back the sands of time. He would do anything, anything. It would help so in these times where he felt so lost.

It was so insensate, that Bruce had left him. And now he was alone in the Manor, as many belongings as would fit in a duffle bag and twice as much sorrow.

Under such a heavy atmosphere, he made his plea. "I don't know what to do, Bruce." He hoped somewhere up above, Bruce would hear his voice and take pity on him.

Bruce came to with a start. He had no idea where he was, or why, and if he'd been any more confused he wouldn't know who he was, either. But at the least he remembered himself, and that only left the first two questions to be answered. Where was he, and why was he there?

The first thing that came to mind was that he might be closer to somewhere familiar than he thought. It was a meadow, that much was certain, and he was almost sure that he'd seen it before. Since it was winter, the land was mostly barren of flowers, but all the same, he felt he knew the place. It was a queer feeling, this knowing, because even if he knew where he was in abstract he couldn't articulate where he was, and since he couldn't articulate where he was, he couldn't make sense of it.

He looked about him. The meadow stretched on and on in one direction. Perhaps if he followed the path, he might see where it led.

He walked and walked through the meadow until he came to another footpath. This path seemed even more familiar than the last, so he took it, and walked some more. It was growing lighter as he did, the rays in the sky above shining bright as any nice day. The longer he walked, the brighter it was, until his vision was almost eclipsed by pure white.

And then — he saw it. The light faded, and there it was. BRUCE THOMAS WAYNE, DEARLY DEPARTED. A gravestone. His gravestone, to be more precise. How could he be looking at his own gravestone?

He tried to re-orient himself. Surely it wasn't real. It was a dream. A nightmare. Scarecrow, maybe, or one of his old-fashioned terrors. Silly though it was, he pinched himself.

The gravestone was still there. What did it mean? He wasn't dead, after all. Or — was he?

His lips thinned. It wasn't possible to be a ghost. He didn't know why he was entertaining the idea, other than the whole scenario was so outlandish and absurd he could think of no other rational explanation for the fact that he was staring at his own gravestone. It was simply too real. It was exactly where he specified it ought to be, next to his parents in the graveyard they occupied. The inscription, of course, wasn't his design, but then he'd always thought Dick or somebody would choose it for him. It was only fitting, in the case that those he cared for had to survive him.

He reached out to touch the gravestone. Just to confirm it was all there, like he thought it was, and that he wasn't imagining things. His hand slipped through.

Point one for being a ghost.

It could still be a dream, he thought. It could still be a figment of his imagination. Something he made up because he was too stressed, too tired, stretched too thin. A warning. A threat, even. But not something real.

If he were really a ghost, after all, he reckoned he ought to feel different. As it was, he felt no worse for wear than he did before, when last he was alive. He'd always imagined that ghosts felt… sickly. If they existed, that was. Big if.

He couldn't be a ghost, by that measure. No, perhaps he'd gone into a coma, and he was having delusions inside the coma. He'd wake up just as soon as the doctors fixed him up. He would be right as rain in no time. All he had to do was wait out this imaginary world.

So he waited.

He waited and he waited. For what might've been hours or days in this in-between space, he waited.

Nothing changed. He got up and walked about and waited some more.

The longer he waited, the more it became clear that nothing was going to change. That left him with one possibility: it was real. He was a detective. That meant he had to reason with the facts.

What did it mean, then, that he was dead? He had to face that question, since it was real. It wasn't a part of his imagination. It was a real thing with real consequences. What did it mean, being dead, and what did it mean that he was a ghost?

What was he here for?

If he were to treat the canon of ghost lore as truth, there was something keeping his soul from moving on. Some objective left uncompleted. It could be any number of things. Bruce had so much to do before he died. So much left undone.

So much left unsaid.

His last memories, for example. The party. He wished he would have talked with Dick, really talked. There was something crucial he wanted to tell him, if he could ever get around to it. It was hard to admit even to himself.

Perhaps he could start there. He felt it was no secret that he was fond of Dick, and yet in life he failed to demonstrate to a certain extent how far his fondness for Dick went. It was more than mere affection or familiarity. Even he could glean insight into as much. No, he loved Dick, and he had been hard pressed to keep it a secret. It stood to reason that that might be the whole point his soul was tethered to the earth.

There were flowers at his gravestone, with a card. From Dick, just like at the party. It was a sign, he decided. He would find Dick and figure what all this ghost business was about.

Thus he began making his way to Dick's apartment. As a ghost, it was not so easy as one would expect. He didn't have the ability to soar overhead or to otherwise travel long distances at his convenience. He had to rely on his own two legs and whatever transportation he could catch, though he didn't tire as he might have in life.

When he arrived at the apartment, Dick wasn't there, and it seemed like he hadn't been for hours. The lights were off and everything was put away, in that neat-enough fashion that was his hallmark. No intruders, it seemed. That was good.

Some scribbled notes were left on the counter. The date was written and circled with MANOR on it.

So he went to the Manor.

He arrived in time to hear Dick plead.

"I don't know what to do, Bruce," Dick confided, as he did when Bruce was alive. "You were so invincible. You came back to life once — why can't you do it again?"

Bruce looked on from afar with sorrow in his eyes. To pain the person he loved in this way was an awful burden on his soul. His heart tightened, and he reached out a hand to clasp Dick's shoulder. Incorporeal as he was, he wasn't sure the gesture provided any comfort. It didn't hurt to try, anyway.

"It's like you're still here with me," Dick muttered. "I can practically feel you, brooding behind me."

"I'm not brooding," came Bruce's protest.

"That's what you always say," Dick sighed, and then he stopped, his eyes wide as if he'd been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. He shook his head. "…Oh, Bruce. You've no idea the grief you cause me."

I'm sorry, Dick, Bruce wanted to say. Instead, he hung his head in defeat.

That night, he watched Dick as he slept. His sleep was far from peaceful. He shuddered in his bed, wracked by chills; he tossed and turned with nightmares. He didn't cry or whimper, but the sight of him was sad all the same. Was his death so impactful? Bruce wondered. Was he the cause of Dick's anguish?

Bruce thought that there must be something he could do to reach out to Dick. But try as he might, none of his appeals seemed to get through.

The night passed. The next day, Dick woke up from fitful slumber to the early rays of the sun coming up over the horizon.

Over the course of the night, Bruce had much time to think. To come up with a strategy. Somehow, he had to get through to Dick. If only to assuage his discomfort for a second. It was selfish, of course, what he was doing. In life he had never discussed with Dick what he felt for that reason. Because it was selfish. It was still selfish: he hardly imagined it would be a relief to Dick, to be so burdened with Bruce's feelings and not be able to do anything about it. Yet it was better than leaving the matter to rest forever, as Bruce's mortal body was laid to rest. He didn't know how long he would remain in this state. The duration of ghosthood was variable, and its rules were obscure. He could have three days left, or three weeks, or three months. It was better he acted soon.

He understood why the ghosts of lore acted the way they did. Why they whispered through telephones and why they manipulated the eyes of paintings. Wouldn't any person do the same, desperate to communicate with their loved ones left behind? He was almost tempted to do the same with Dick. The problem was, employing such methods wouldn't work. Dick was a trained skeptic. He wouldn't fall for simple bait. Definite proof was what Bruce needed. Some way to prove that this bit of magic was real — it really was Bruce communing with him, and from the land of the dead, no less.

He decided on a straightforward approach. Tried and true. If he could somehow interact with Dick, maybe he could get through to him. Such a feat, of course, was easier imagined than executed. He was incorporeal. If he tried to hold Dick's hand, his hand would slip right through. Yet if he made his presence a constant…. perhaps then the frequency would register.

In the morning, he watched as Dick mustered up the energy to make himself breakfast. It was a simple spread of toast and eggs with a glass of milk. A comfort meal. He took notice of all Dick's habits as if he were learning him anew: these were sides of Dick he couldn't take for granted. Of course, when Dick was young, they fought and ate and played together, and this Bruce was familiar with. The adult Dick was hardly different. He could see it as clear as day, now that he had the time to pay attention. The little hallmarks of behavior that were always so obviously Dick remained. The thoughtfulness ingrained in him from Alfred's school of manners, contrasted by the way he held himself, poised on the edge of his chair as if he could leap up at any moment, raring to go. Even buried in his cloak of grief, his boy was there.

In the afternoon, Bruce took up by Dick's side while Dick perused through photo albums and meandered his way into the master bedroom, as was his custom. He wasn't exactly what one would call 'productive,' preoccupied with memories. It was endearing all the same.

In the evening, Bruce accompanied Dick to a sparse dinner and to preparations for patrol. Dick always went on patrol, no matter how under the weather he was. He was dedicated to the cause. Part of Bruce felt guilty for enmeshing him in it — and at such a young age, too. But the other part of Bruce was glad that there was someone so capable of looking after the city. If there was anyone he entrusted to the task, it was Dick.

This routine went on for some time. One week passed, then two, each day falling into the same easy rhythm. He would follow Dick for the whole day long, hoping that moment after moment would bring him the exposure he needed to break through to Dick at last.

There were moments where he thought he was almost there. Where Dick would glance behind him, and Bruce was almost certain he saw him. Moments where Dick would startle, Bruce's name on his lips, and he was sure that Dick was within reach. Then the moment would pass, and it was all too obvious that Dick was out of grasp. He was at a loss. All he could do was bide his time — what precious little he had of it.

That was, until one peculiar afternoon. Dick was sitting in the window of the library that looked out onto the courtyard, a box of mementos at his side. He was just now starting, in earnest, to sort through things to keep or give away. Perhaps Dick felt it too, that there wasn't enough time in the world for them to keep going on this way.

On one side he had a pile to save, and on the other side, he had a pile to consider giving away. Dick was sentimental, and because he was sentimental, he was awful at getting rid of things. This, Bruce could understand. It wasn't as if he was any different, in life.

The pile of things to be saved was quite a bit larger than the pile of things to consider giving away. All the artifacts that surfaced out of this box seemed to be important in one way or another. There was a baseball that Bruce and Dick used to throw around when Dick was young. Some loose photos that had yet to make their way into frames, little snapshots into the world they used to occupy together. And then, at the bottom of the box, most curious of all: a candle.

He remembered this candle. He'd given it to Dick not long into their partnership. It was a replica of the candle they'd used to swear to each other, to promise that they would always uphold justice in every which way they could. The very foundation on which their relationship was laid.

In a way, it was symbolic of what they meant to each other.

He watched as recognition washed over Dick's face. For once, he was pleased. So often as of late, he had seemed depressed, and now, an easy grin tugged at Dick's lips. Whatever sparked the change, Bruce was glad for.

Dick left the box and took the candle to the living room. There was a lighter in the drawer of the coffee table that Bruce had used in life to light ornamental candles and other vestigial gas-powered lanterns remnant of his parents' days in the house.

Once the lighter was secured, he set the candle upon the table and with a SPARK, lit the flame.

Dick spent his days, as of late, strolling down memory lane. It was easier to occupy himself with the past than to face the awful present. Every day was the same. He whiled away the hours in the world of boxes filled with pictures and pictures filled with reminders of what he used to have. He went on patrol. Sometimes, he ate.

All of this he did alone. It was what he deserved, he reckoned. He should have stayed that night. He should have mustered up his courage and said something, anything. Then Bruce might still be alive. He could've been there to help.

Day after day he was reminded, painful as it was, that he wasn't there at all.

From time to time, he received calls. It was odd, but he almost expected to hear Bruce on the other end of the line. He thought, if he strained his ears, that he could hear Bruce whispering to him. But before long, the illusion inevitably passed, and reality filtered through. Bruce wasn't there, he was elsewhere, his soul long departed. He had been so accomplished. If ghosts were real, Bruce wouldn't have anything to stay for. Unless he stayed behind to guard the city, and that, Dick took care of. He alternated between the guises of Batman and Nightwing, prowling the night each night in the pursuit of justice. This too, he did alone. The others understood he needed space to grieve, and so gave him berth to operate.

There was some fundamental understanding of himself that had shifted when he was told that Bruce was dead. It was just that so much of his life had, at one point or another, revolved around the man and his mythos. There was no mistaking the influence Bruce had produced on Dick. All those years spent together. Peace and camaraderie and bickering and fighting and making up. He was so colored by Bruce, he was sure if it were possible his insides would bear his inscription somewhere. And in all that time, in his own way he had loved Bruce. Still loved Bruce, his heart fierce as his grief. It stemmed from admiration, first. The platonic ideal. With age, it swelled beyond his reach.

How he wished he had said something. It was agony enough that the person he loved was gone. It certainly didn't help that he had never let on to Bruce he loved him. If he could be granted one more moment with Bruce, then he could be at peace. Just one moment, and he would say everything that was on his mind.

As it was, that was not the way the world worked. He contented himself instead with his memories, those precious echoes of Bruce's presence.

One afternoon, he was going through more boxes when he found some particular items of interest. A baseball — he remembered what a fast arm Bruce had —, some loose photos. And a candle. A special candle. In fact, a replica of the very candle they had sworn on all those years ago.

This was some find. He thought it had been misplaced some years ago. Pleased with himself, he fished out a lighter to light the candle with from a drawer and lit it with a SPARK.

Just then, something unusual happened. The flame flickered to life, but this was no normal flame. It was overlarge, and — he squinted. A figure was materializing out of the flame. It was familiar. Tall, in a crisp black suit. His eyes watered. It couldn't be. That was exactly how Bruce looked the day he died. What kind of tricks were his mind playing on him?

His mouth moved before his body did. "Bruce?" he asked. The wheels in his brain turned furiously, until he came to the only conclusion there could be. "You're a ghost." He could hear his own incredulous disbelief. Ghosts weren't real, surely. The idea was preposterous. Were his eyes deceiving him?

The ghost-Bruce looked back at him. He was in a state Dick had rarely ever seen him before: shocked. Gone was his cool and calm demeanor.

"Dick," he said, and it sounded eerie. Otherworldly. God, he was a ghost.

"Bruce. You're here." His eyes watered with tears.

Here was his opportunity. He could tell him now exactly what he'd felt. He tried to say something, but his mouth couldn't articulate what he wanted to say.

"Shhh," Bruce soothed. "Don't say anything. Stay with me, chum."

He didn't need to be told twice.

A few weeks had elapsed since the funeral, and there were visitors to the Manor.

"Dick?" Tim called. Damian followed behind him. "Are you okay?"

END