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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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.

'The anticipation is killing me,' he says, just as flat as before.

And then sighs, as he sees they're back.

'Look, it's nothing personal. I just don't really see the point of all this.'

"If I took things personally, or cared what you thought of me, I'd have applied for that job leaving money under pillows in exchange for used teeth.

"I'm not the point of all this. I never am.

"As for what is . . . well, perhaps you will yet figure that out."

She releases his hand, and immediately begins to fade.

"Pay attention to that which my siblings show you. And remember that there will always be more things to think of or learn or discover that you do not know. And as long as you can admit that, and consider them when they do present themselves . . . then there will be hope for you, Bruce Wayne.

"'Tis the season, after all.

"Merry Christmas."

And he's alone.

'You mean there's not hope for me now?' he mutters, but without any surprise.

It's not like he has much for himself, after all. Hope for Batman, maybe, but that's not the same thing.

He fetches a glass of water, and sits down to wait. Something tells him it won't be long.

He doesn't have to anticipate the next Ghost's arrival for very long.

Presently, soft strains of a Christmas carol begin to drift through the air. They grow stronger and louder, until the source finally reveals itself in a corner of the room.

The Ghost finishes his song with one final flourish of his bow.

He bows.

"Mr. Wayne. A pleasant evening to you, my good man."

Bruce just looks at him, darkly.

After a long moment, he stands up.

'OK.'

'Shall we go?'

The Ghost morphs, and this time the smile is a bit flirtatious.

"My. So eager."

But she offers her arm.

"But, of course."

"There really is no time like the Present."

'Or maybe I just want to get it over with?'

Stating the obvious, really, and none too cheerfully at that. Still, he's polite enough when he takes her arm, though there's not a hint of the flirting being reciprocated.

The look evolves into something a bit maternal and reproving.

"Goodness, honey, did you ever get up on the wrong side of the bed."

Still, she pats his hand comfortingly as they draw out of the room (or perhaps the room draws away from them) and leaves them in a new scene.

'I'd still be in bed if it weren't for this,' he says, through gritted teeth.

But he's here, and so is she, and that seems to be that.

And here...is Gotham. That bar again, the one where Falcone holds court, and thinks himself untouchable. Bruce stares around, noting the judges, the cops, the odd politician. All of them look at ease, and are drinking, and have girls around them. Boys, in one case.

'Great,' he says, mostly to himself. But he doesn't sound too pissed off. This isn't something personal. This is business, and Bruce Wayne knows all about that.

'I haven't seen this place in more than seven years,' he says to the ghost. Like it matters.

The Ghost looks around with well-bred interest.

"And are we here to see anyone in particular, Mr. Wayne?"

They are, most likely. Who that is usually makes him or herself apparent pretty readily.

'I expect s-'

...yep, there it is. Falcone's laugh, unmistakable from the corner of the room. He's sitting at the exact same table as the last time Bruce was here, though he's sharing it with people he probably likes a lot better, this time.

'Falcone,' he says, to answer the question. But makes no move toward him just yet. The view isn't great from here, but the voice carries easily enough.

She'll allow him to lead while they're here.

One way or another, they'll see all that they need to see.

The Ghost nods and waits for the scene to unfold.

It takes a while for Bruce to understand it himself. Though, really, that's not true. The man's just sitting there, having a good time, not talking about anything of consequence. And maybe that's the point.

'He's a crime boss,' Bruce says, eventually, not taking his eyes off him. Though the ghost probably already knows.

He walks a little closer. Someone asks Falcone a question that makes him laugh, and a judge at the next table looks over.

'...yeah, you were there that night, huh? He sat right there, and told me he wasn't afraid of me. Please. Like he knows anything about anything? Prick.'

The judge smirks. 'You know they were about to declare him dead? There some members of the board choking over him turning up alive. Would've been interesting, you know? What might have been.'

Falcone looks at him. Bruce reads a touch of confusion on his face, mostly drowned out by anger that someone knows something he doesn't.

'What are you talking about? So the kid's alive. He's a,' he mimes scissors with his fingers; a jerky, uneven gesture, 'goddamn cardboard cutout. What's he going to do?'

'That's what they're asking, Carmine.' The judge spreads his hands, like don't shoot the messenger. 'No one's seen him, no one knows where he's been. They're worried he's going to rock the boat.'

Falcone chews on the end of his cigar. Bruce turns to the ghost immediately.

'You sure this is all real? In the present? This is happening, or just did, or is just about to?'

The Ghost nods.

"This isn't exactly my first rodeo," she says.

"This is a picture of your Christmas present. People tend to see the things that have meaning to them."

"Or will have meaning to them. But that tense is more my sister's department."

He can see the use in this far more than being shown the past. The board had seemed happy enough to have him back, though obviously unsettled. If they hadn't got rid of Lucius, he might never have suspected something was wrong - though he likes to think he would have found out eventually. It's not like he really planned to leave the family business in the hands of strangers.

Interesting that he's being shown Falcone, though. This isn't just about business. He steps closer to see the guy's face, annoyed but sharp. He's a smart man, if with an obvious tendency to underestimate people.

'Eh.' The guy makes a dismissive gesture, though his eyes don't lose their edge. 'It doesn't matter what he does up there in the boardroom. He's a suit.'

The judge raises his eyebrows, lowers them. Maybe, maybe not. 'His father wasn't-'

'He's not his father. And so what? So he came down here once, acting the big guy. You think that makes him a threat to me? I told him the truth, and he ran away, and no one heard from him in seven goddamn years. Don't come in here, and tell me I need to be afraid of a kid like that.'

Falcone's eyes are wide. Bruce watches impassively as the judge holds up his hands, and says, 'whoa, whoa, Carmine. I was just talking. I don't think you need to be afraid.'

Bruce smirks sardonically, and glances at the ghost.

'He doesn't fear anyone. Any person, at least.'

But Batman, though. Suddenly, Bruce really wants to see how Falcone fares against Batman.

Honestly, the Ghost looks less than impressed, too. But he really isn't supposed to offer judgment on others.

And it's up to his next sibling to discuss what may come.

"Did you want to remain longer?" the Ghost asks.

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