master_bruce | OOM: Ghosts of Christmas

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christmas ghosts 2012

OOM: Ghosts of Christmas

Bruce has next to no use for Christmas. The only difference it really makes to him is that he has to go to more pointless parties in Gotham. Though on the flipside, the crime rate usually does drop a bit.

Anyway, Milliways tends to give him a place to escape to, with the added bonus of more time spent with X. Not that she's here tonight, but he'll see her tomorrow. He was looking forward to catching up on some rest tonight - so he's actually kind of annoyed when he wakes up to find someone else in his room.

His hand is on a batarang before he's anywhere near sitting up.

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"You don't need that.

"I'm not here to hurt you, and you couldn't hurt me if you tried."

She's sitting in a nearby chair, hands settled lightly in her lap, features shifting as she watches him.

Oh, and she's glowing.

"Hello, Bruce.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

She's glowing.

Huh.

His hand does not come off the weapon.

'Say again?'

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," she says again, standing and extending her hand to him.

"Rise, and walk with me."

'...why?'

He's not prone to flights of fancy, or trusting things that might pose a threat. And of course he's heard the name and is familiar with the concept - but the idea that such a thing might be real is difficult for him to chew on.

"Because I think you'll prefer it to being dragged along behind me."

It's not very dignified.

"And because my siblings and I have a lot to show you, and only one night in which to work, so we do need to get going."

'You're saying I don't have a choice?'

He's heard about the weirdness of Milliways, of course. But he hasn't yet been pulled into anything against his will. So he just stares at her for a moment - and then gets out of bed.

What else can he do, really? Just ignoring it and hoping it'll go away doesn't seem like an option, and he is a bit curious.

So he pulls a soft hoodie on, and a pair of sneakers.

'If this is someone's idea of a joke, it's not funny.'

"You have many choices, Bruce. That's the whole point.

"Not coming with me just doesn't happen to one of them.

"Still, I am trying to ask nicely. It's only polite."

She wiggles the fingers of the hand that has been extended this whole time.

"Shall we?"

He sighs, and takes the hand.

'Fine.'

Though he has a bad feeling about this. Having said that - how far in the past might they go? It might not be so bad.

As far back as they need to, of course.

She smiles faintly as he takes her hand, and then starts walking, straight at and then through the wall in front of them.

Shortest distance between two points, after all.

Besides, the wall doesn't matter nearly as much as what's on the other side of it.

He blinks as they go through the wall, but it doesn't feel like anything different.

And on the other side of it - home.

They stand in the entrance hall of Wayne Manor, at the foot of a vast Christmas tree that stretches fifteen, twenty feet into the air. Decorations cover every inch of it; he used to spend most of a whole day watching the staff cover it, when he was small. They'd let him hang balls on the lower branches, and wrap him up in tinsel while he laughed. He was never allowed up the ladder to decorate further up, no matter how much he begged.

He smiles at the sight of it - it's been a long time since he bothered - and looks around. Nothing's different. A mark of how little the place has moved on, he supposes.

'What year is this?'

"Wait and see."

'Helpful,' he says, and moves his gaze back to it. But there's no one around, no sign of life or laughter. No staff, no music.

His heart starts to sink in his chest.

'I can look around?'

He's not sure what the rules are.

"Of course.

"There'd hardly be any point in bringing you if you weren't here to see things, after all."

'Mmm.'

He's already wandering up the stairs. Not being able to hear anything down here doesn't mean much. Wayne Manor is so vast, the whole family could be yelling in one of the corners of a wing and he still wouldn't be able to hear. But the stairs are here, so he walks up them.

And also, if this is when he thinks it is, he's more likely to be up in his room than not.

A glance out of one of the windows tells him it's evening, possibly quite late. His heart sinks a little further. But he doesn't stop until he gets to his room. The door is closed, but he doesn't let that stop him - if they can walk through walls at Milliways, they can manage it here.

His room is large. Neat and tidy, though he's obviously a kid who didn't want for anything. None of the things in there matter though. He stops by the door, and sees himself in the bed, and sighs. Leans on the wall, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

'This is the first Christmas after my parents were killed,' he says, to no one in particular. But the ghost will be able to hear.

The Ghost would have known even without hearing.

But she nods, anyway, for the sake of acknowledging what he may or may not be expecting an acknowledgement of.

The kid's crying. Not sobbing, or wailing, or making much of any noise at all. Just...crying. The quilt is up to his ears, he's curled on his side, and there doesn't seem to be any hope of him stopping.

Bruce just watches.

After a while, he lets out a breath, and looks at the floor.

'I'm hoping Alfred will come,' he says.

'But I don't ring for him.'

He remembers it clearly. Hoping that he'll show up, and knowing that he could go and find him, or call out. He'd come straight away. But also knowing that there's nothing he could say that would make it stop hurting. It had just felt so hopeless. There was no point to having anyone near.

He draws in another breath, and straightens.

'I'm going to go find him.'

She can follow, or not.

She'll follow.

It's kind of what she does.

"Do you wish that you had rung for him?"

He shrugs. It's almost sullen, but he doesn't owe this ghost manners.

'What difference does it make? I can't change it now.'

He kind of wishes he had. It had been one of the worst nights he can remember, made even worse the next day by the pile of presents from names he didn't know. All of them with some message of sympathy, or pointed lack of it, written by people who surely said to each other, 'we mustn't remind him', as though he could have forgotten by then. All of them only heightened the absence of what should have been there.

He can hear soft music floating out into the hallway. Alfred's room was close to his. It never used to be, but it had seemed stupid to put the length of the house between them, given the circumstances. Bruce walks in, ignoring the pang of intrusion.

Alfred sits in his comfortable armchair, looking odd in just his shirt sleeves. He's wrapping a single gift. Bruce stops, and frowns.

He doesn't remember this. Not the scene - he wouldn't, he was never here. But the gift...it's a train. He doesn't remember receiving that. But he can see his name on the tag, so he must have got it.

'I don't remember this.'

"There are many things that can be done with the past. Honor it, condemn it, idealize it, deny it. Learn from it. But, no, change it is not among them. What you will decide to do with it, Bruce, is one of those many choices you have.

"Perhaps, for the moment, what we should do is watch it."

'Cute,' he says, though it's not cute at all. She's right, of course, but he's already decided what to do with it, and what his future is. He's pretty sure he doesn't need this.

He doesn't take his gaze from Alfred though. The man is painstaking in his wrapping; no uneven corners, no untidy tape, everything folded neatly. He's taking his time with it, sipping from a small glass of liquor occasionally - and Bruce can't help but notice how sad he looks. How old, which is strange, because this was almost twenty years ago.

'I never thought what this would be like for him,' he says, eventually.

'That night - tonight - I wanted him, but I wanted my parents more. I never thought he might want them too.'

It can't have been easy, suddenly becoming guardian of a boy. Even without circumstances like this.

"It would have been a fairly remarkable thing for a child in your position to have thought of," she says quietly.

Not a bad thing for the man he is now to know, though.

'Still.'

Bruce Wayne does not cut himself a break. Ever.

He reaches a hand out, and places it on Alfred's unfeeling shoulder. There's no reaction from him, of course. Bruce just looks at the train for a moment, and then lets his hand drop away.

'I'll find it,' he says.

'Nothing ever gets thrown away. It'll be in a box, somewhere.'

Things get given away to people who need them more. But he hopes this one thing will have remained here.

Everyone needs a break now and again.

They help prevent breakdowns.

The Ghost nods, once.

And then, after a long moment of silence, she asks, "Are you ready to go back?

"My middle sibling will be along soon."

'Oh. Good,' he says, flatly, and turns to face her. He does not look back at Alfred, though the temptation to stay here and watch him is pretty strong.

'Yeah, fine. Let's go.'

"You might like her. Or at least like her better than you do me. If people are going to like one of us, it's usually her.

"Or him. Whatever gender construct is being adopted this particular year. Possibly more than one of them."

That's Present for you. Her sisters have fairly timeless looks, but Present is all about the now.

The Ghost of Christmas Past rests her hand on Bruce's arm, and guides him back through the wall and into Milliways.

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