Dick walked into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, watching Alfred as the butler prepared a meal that would go uneaten.

Dick hadn't eaten since the day before, and Tim had only picked at the food. Bruce – well, Bruce had disappeared into the Batcave, and no one had seen him for more than a day.

And, yet, Alfred made meals as he had done every day for over twenty years. Protein and fresh vegetables and a small amount of starch, and a dessert part decadence and part healthful fruit.

"Alfred, you don't have to do that." Dick finally said, pushing off the wall.

Alfred nodded. "Yes, I do. If I don't, Master Richard, who shall? Who shall see that Master Bruce has food available if – when he comes out? Who will feed you boys? Who will make certain that Master Da – " He caught himself.

The room was silent save for Alfred's quick intake of breath as he drew air and tried to stifle the sound of his own crying.

Dick stood there, stiff and dry-eyed, looking at Alfred hunched over the counter, but not knowing what to say or do. Finally, after a several long minutes, Dick walked over and put a hand on Alfred's shoulder, and the old man grasped it with his own.

"Look at me, weeping like a schoolboy, when I should be comforting you." Alfred dashed away tears.

Dick shook his head. "We can comfort each other."

They turned into each other's arms, and stood embracing until Alfred gave a final sniff, and stepped back.

Dick shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Have you seen Bruce?"

Alfred shook his head. "Not since he took Master Damian into the cave with him. I know that he is – well. He had a vital signs monitor implanted about a year ago, for field work, and I am keeping track of it. His heart rate and pulse are – slow, but normal."

Dick nodded. "And you're sure that he put Dami in the – cooler?"

"Quite sure. I – went down there last night and – sat with the young master. Master Bruce won't let him be embalmed, you know, so it's essential that we keep – the body," a sob escaped the butler, "cool until the funeral."

Tears came to Dick's eyes then as he thought of his baby brother cold and lifeless. "I haven't seen him yet. Since..." He trailed off.

"You'd be proud of Bruce, Dick." Alfred dropped his courtesy titles. "He cleaned Damian up, and dressed him in the suit that he wore in the – family portrait. I don't know where he got the strength. I do not think that I could have done it." He wiped tears from his face with a snowy white handkerchief that appeared from nowhere.

"And Bruce isn't sitting – with him?"

Alfred shook his head. "No. I don't know where he is. Somewhere in the caves. No one has come or gone since last night, so I know that he is in there – somewhere."

Dick nodded. "I think I'm going to go down there. I should find him. Someone should find him. And I have to see Dami again."

Alfred nodded. "Should you like Master Timothy or me to accompany you?"

Dick shook his head. "Thank you, Alfred, but you have enough to do without holding my hand. And I think Tim's still asleep. Let him."

Alfred nodded again, and watched as Dick disappeared from the room.

The halls of Wayne Manor were deathly quiet, as usual, and Dick hated the house, suddenly. He hated the solemnity of the décor, the dark woods, the heavy curtains. He hated his life, and he hated the world, and he hated, more than anything else, himself. He hated himself for failing Damian. For failing to stop him, for failing to save him.

Dick stepped up to the grandfather clock that concealed the entrance to the Batcave, and turned the hands to the familiar time of 10:47, the moment at which Thomas and Martha Wayne had died. He wondered, idly, if Bruce would change the time to the time of Damian's death, and if anyone knew the exact time that Robin had left this world.

The panel slid open and Dick ducked inside, and, by the low lights always burning within, made his way down into the cold bowels of the Earth.

"Bruce?" He called his father's name gently into the darkness, but was not surprised when there was no response.

His footsteps echoing in the caves, he made his way past the darkened main room, with its black computers and eerie shadows, and came to the cooler.

Called that because it was refrigerated, it was the room in which Bruce kept all his perishable specimens and evidence, and it even featured a cadaver drawer, in which victims of crimes could be placed, if necessary, although, to Dick's knowledge, it had never been used. Until now.

The light was on within, but Bruce was not here, either.

Dick paused inside the door to the room before finally pulling it shut behind him.

It was, predictably, very cold, and, although part of Dick wished that he had worn a jacket, part of him wanted to suffer. Part of him wanted to suffer, and part of him wanted to join Damian in feeling the cold.

But he doesn't feel it, Dick's rational side said.

He walked up to the cadaver drawer and put his hand on it the handle, and drew in a deep breath.

The tears came, then, heavily, and he sank onto his knees. "I can't do this. I can't! Christ! I can't do this!" Dick, not being particularly spiritual, was taken aback by his own words, and did not know if it was a supplication or simply a statement.

Yes, you can, Dick. The voice came to him, soft and kind, and he recognized it as his mother's.

"No, I can't. I just – can't." He shook his head, and spoke to nothing.

Yes, you can. You're strong. Be strong.

"I'm not strong. I can't do this. I can't see him – like this. I can't."

But he's not there anymore – not really. You know that.

"No, I don't! I don't know what comes after we die. What if there's really just – nothingness? I can't bear to think of him there! Cold and alone, and it's my fault!"

It's not your fault that a vindictive madwoman sent someone to kill him.

"But I didn't save him! And I didn't save you!"

And neither is your fault. You know that.

"But he's all alone! He's – alone." His voice broke.

No, he's not. He's here – with you, and he always will be.

Dick sat and looked across the room, his vision obscured by tears, his mother's words echoing in his head.

He took a deep breath, and, wiping his face, stood to face the drawer.

With one sure movement, he pulled the drawer out, and stood staring into the slack face of his baby brother.

"Oh, God." He reached forward, tentatively, but, before his hand reached Damian's cheek, he pulled back.

He looked much different from the last time that Dick had seen him – clean, and dressed, as Alfred had said, in the suit that he had worn in their family portrait. It seemed so long ago that it been painted, although Dick knew that it had only been a matter of months.

The sleeves of the suit were slightly too short on Damian, a sign that his brother had grown since the portrait sitting.

Dick reached out and touched him, Damian's skin no longer warm and soft, but cold and almost rubbery. The inkiness of the boy's lashes were startling against his pallid skin, and the slight tinge of pink that had always been in his cheeks was missing, the chubbiness flattened.

"Oh, Dami." The tears started again, and another sob escaped Dick. They were huge, wracking his frame and tearing the breath from his body. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry. We didn't save the world, and I didn't save you. I failed. I failed you."

He sank to his knees, his fingers gripping the edge of the drawer with an intensity that whitened his knuckles.

"I love you. I love you more than – you'll ever know. Than you ever knew." He corrected himself. "You're the best brother I could have asked for. And you're the best Robin. Bar none."

He rested his forehead against Damian's arm and cried for he didn't know how long.

He cried for the little boy who wanted to make his father proud, and for the one who would never pet his dog again.

He cried for the young man that Damian would never become.

He cried for the wife and children that Damian would never have.

He cried for the old age that Damian would never see.

He cried for the happiness that had left the world.

He cried for himself and he cried for Bruce.

He cried until he could barely breathe, and then, exhausted, he lapsed into silence.

After a long while, after mustering the strength, he stood and looked on his brother for the last time, then leaned over and laid a kiss on the boy's cold forehead.

"Goodbye, baby bird. I love you."

Author's Notes: I finished this fic after reading Batman Inc #9. I waited because I wanted to read Dick's reaction to Damian's death, and I molded this chapter to fit that. Writing this almost killed me, and, to be frank, I can't reread it again, so I hope that it is coherent and has no mistakes or typos - it's hard to see through tears. I don't know why this character's death affected me so greatly - perhaps because I am a mother, and the death of a child is something that all mothers dread and mourn - regardless of what Grant Morrison wants you to believe. Perhaps it affects me because I have written for Damian in my fanfic. Perhaps it is because he is a child, and I loathe when children die, in real life or in fiction. I always get a sense of a life interrupted and cheated.

I can't say that I hope you like this, because there is something so UNLIKABLE about killing off a child. I hope, then, that you find it realistic and true to the characters.

Thank you for reading.