Five hours. Complete silence in that amount of time is enough to drive most men to distraction. Bruce Wayne however is not "most men". His eyes are fixed, his posture rigid. The hands shoved into his trouser pockets are clenched. On his face is a mixed expression. Anger does battle with sorrow. Loneliness shadows them both
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He'd watched his father for several minutes, standing silently behind the gravestone and the man crouched in front of it. Alistair Wayne had come to pay his respects as well.
Father's Day... Alex had a father, but even still Alfred had been so much to him. Had helped him to his feet again so many times when his own father wasn't there to. While the man wasn't as significant in the younger Wayne's life as he had been in Bruces, he was still a very big part. And he was gone.
The young man cleared his throat some to announce his presence, stepping forward with a vase filled with flowers to put by the gravemarker.
"Hey... Happy Father's Day, Dad."
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Eventually he rises from the crouched position and steps back to stand beside his son. His brow is furrowed and his eyes are pained. This is not an expression he would share with anyone outside of family. This is a wounded Bruce. Angry and hurt.
He places a hand on his son's arm and squeezes. Despite his tumultuous state, he's glad Alex has chosen to join him.
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