The air inside the manor was thick with tension, the weight of grief settling heavily in the grandiose hall. Where there once stood a hoard of party-goers were mourners, dressed in dark, somber attire, their eyes drawn to the casket draped with a black velvet cloth. The Wayne family crest gleamed on a small silver plaque, but it offered little comfort to everyone in the room now. Richard Grayson stood at the back of the room, his hands folded tightly in front of him, his jaw tight; His eyes, red-rimmed from the sleepless nights leading up to today, were fixed on the casket, but he couldn’t see it--not really. Too many people.

Bruce Wayne was... gone. His Bruce. The man who had raised him, trained him, fought alongside him. The man who had been more of a father than anyone ever had a right to be. The vigilante could feel the weight of expectant eyes upon him; The other members of the Wayne family, the police department, the dignitaries--everyone with their own version of Bruce’s legacy--but none of them knew him the way he did. None of them had been there, day in and day out, through the ups and the downs. None of them had seen Bruce at his most vulnerable, at his most angry, at his most hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut as he ran a hand over his face, the memories flooding back: Laughter echoing the mansion--rare but real--the hushed conversations at the dead of night when Alfred was asleep, the holidays were they felt like a normal family. Bruce had always been stoic and cold, dedicated to his mission, but it was him who could see the man behind the cowl.

He hadn’t spoken during the service at all. What could he say? How could he possibly sum up Bruce Wayne in a few words? How could he afford to speak without choking on the grief that threatened to suffocate him? Instead, he stood there, alone in a room full of people, pretending to hold it together. A single, hot tear scorched Richard’s cheek, and he hastily swiped it away with a sniffle. For the first time in a long time, he felt small again.