OOM: Ghosts of Christmas

[master_bruce]

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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[master_bruce]

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.

[christmas_present]

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.

[master_bruce]

His response is cut off by Falcone talking again. Loudly this time, and angrily.

'...and I tell you something, your Honour. I don't care if you were pals with his daddy, or Thomas goddamn Wayne thought the sun shone out of your butt, because he obviously didn't know you very well, did he? That kid comes in here again, threatening me, he ain't walking out. I don't care who hears me say it.'

The bar's gone quiet. Bruce looks around - there are a few shocked faces nearby, a few pretending not to have heard. But it seems like the guy was right, seven years ago. he can do what he likes in here, say what he likes, and no one's going to call him on it. It really is a kind of power. Just not the kind he's willing to let rule Gotham.

Falcone straightens his jacket, and calms himself. The judge looks pensive, but holds his tongue. Gradually, the murmur of voices starts up again and covers the moment.

Bruce turns to the ghost, his tone both decisive, and softly amused.

'We can go.'

[christmas_present]

The Ghost gives Falcone a rather disapproving Well, really! once over before she holds out her hand to Bruce.

"He's going to try to be trouble for you, I think," she says as they depart.

[master_bruce]

'He's trouble for everyone. He's a disease.'

Gotham's sick because of people like him. But not for much longer, if he has his way.

'And it's OK. I plan to be trouble for him.'

[christmas_present]

The Ghost looks at him sidelong and nods.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you how that will go," he says.

Though he does wish for the best.

All he can really do is lead Bruce on in the present. Wherever that might take them next.

[master_bruce]

'It's OK. I don't need anyone to tell me.'

It'll either work, or it won't. There's a finality to either option.

He's quite glad to see Milliways again, though. There's something unsettling about being magically spirited away. Nothing his training really prepared him for, though it occurs to him it wouldn't hurt to get some practice at things like this. Just in case.

In the meantime, though, he just nods at the ghost.

'This was helpful. Thanks.'

[christmas_present]

The Ghost smiles and gives his hand one last pat before she departs.

"You take care, honey," she says.

This is not an easy path he plans to choose.

"And a Merry Christmas to you," she adds, before fading away and leaving him on his own again.

At least for a little while.

[master_bruce]

He pours another glass of water, and sits down without bothering to put a light on.

Frankly, he'd rather sit and think about what he's seen for a while, but he puts it on the backburner. He's pretty sure he won't have long to wait before he'll be off again.

So be it.

[christmas_future]

A section of darkness grows even closer to pitch black, and from the center of those shadows steps a figure, robed and cowled.

She holds out one hand, close enough to brush Bruce's sleeve, and waits for him to stand.

Some have always been brave enough to walk open-eyed into what lies ahead. Or curious enough, as the case may be.

[master_bruce]

He doesn't hesitate, even though this thing definitely falls into the 'creepy' category. He just stands up, and looks at it.
Then takes the offered hand.

It doesn't speak, so he doesn't speak. Fine with him.

[christmas_future]

She walks, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, grip firm on his hand to bid him follow, and the shadows flow around them.

When they part again, they have left Milliways far behind.

[master_bruce]

They go further than he's expecting. He realises, as he looks around a place he doesn't recognise at all, that he assumed his future would be in Gotham. How could it not be? Even when he was away for seven years, he was always intending to go back. Even if it was a lifetime later.

But this - he turns on the spot, taking it in. Somewhere with green fields, and trees. Remote. It's evening, and the dusk blurs things in the near-distance to the degree that it's hard to make out a defining feature. This could be anywhere. The Mid West, Canada, England, France. They're outside, on a country lane. It's not cold, not hot. It's just a place.

There is a house, though. It's about twenty feet away, up a gravel drive. The whole place would fit in half of the East Wing of Wayne Manor, but though it's small, it doesn't look unpleasant. It's nicely tended, with a lawn, and flowers. Anyone could live here - obviously, it's not going to be a random person. But if he wasn't expecting to see himself, there'd be nothing about this place he could equate to how he lives now.

He starts up the drive without looking at the ghost. He's not concerned with being rude, and is pretty sure this one won't care either way. Not concerned with how he pulls back as soon as he looks in through the window, either.

It's definitely him. And not even a very old him. But the surprise of it is enough to prompt a question, even though he figures it won't get answered.

'How far in the future do you show me?'

He'd assumed it would be when he was old. Not about - well, what? The guy he's looking at can't be fifty yet. At least, if you only look at his face.

[christmas_future]

Yet to Come extends her hand, palm up, gesturing toward the the older Bruce and his country house.

Thus far, she seems to say, and no farther.

At least not yet.

[master_bruce]

He takes a hesitant step forward, and looks back inside. It's weird. He doesn't look much different from the neck up - a few more lines, a touch of grey at the temples. But he's walking to a table, and Bruce can't help but think he's moving like an old man. There's a pronounced stoop, like he can't straighten his back. His limp is so obvious, it's like one leg's shorter than the other. And though his shoulders are still broad and strong, he looks much thinner. His brain tells him it makes sense - if he's injured, and can't work out, he'd obviously lose muscle. But it's a shock to see.

He swallows hard, and heads for the door. He tells himself it's fine - if he's here, maybe Gotham's fixed. Maybe he chose this because the place didn't need him any more. It's easier to consider than the idea of injury, and incapability.

There's a walking stick inside the door, obviously for outdoor use. In the living room, another one; he assumes that's for inside, given how close by it's kept. His older self sits with a sandwich on the table, reading a book. He's wearing glasses. There's no TV. No radio, nothing that looks technological. It might all be hidden away, of course - it would fit his M.O. But he has an uneasy feeling that this really is it.

He turns to the ghost, and opens his mouth to ask a question. And then shuts it, because what's the point? He turns back to watch himself pull a bottle of pills from a pocket, and swallow three.

So. Middle-aged, alone, away from Gotham. And fast headed towards a wheelchair, by the look of things. This is what being Batman gets him?



After a long silence, he asks the question anyway.

'This is written in stone? Or can I change it?'

[christmas_future]

She remains silent as the grave, and just as still.

But only for a moment.

The hand she lifts to rest on Bruce's shoulder trembles faintly, even though her grip is strong.

Perhaps that may be answer enough.

[master_bruce]

He wasn't expecting an answer, and didn't get one. But that's OK. Because even as he said it, he knows it wouldn't change anything. He can't not be Batman. Without that - even if it's something that fails completely - without that, he's really nothing. Just useless.


The guy at the table shifts in his chair, and Bruce realises all the seats are the same - straight-backed, with armrests, for ease of getting in and out of. A tremor of fear grips him, but he refuses to dwell on it. It'll be worth it. It will.

He can't drag his gaze away though. And he can't decide if what he's feeling is horror, or nothing at all. This just is. He doesn't feel anything but inevitability, right at this moment.

But eventually, he says, 'we can go now.' Still watching himself.

And thinking, maybe, that it might be the only time he sees himself like this. Hopefully. But if it isn't, at least he will have tried.

[christmas_future]

The ghost's grip drifts from Bruce's shoulder to his wrist, bone-cold fingers tightening almost to pain.

Deep, silent shadows enfold them, and on the other side --

The faint light of Milliways remains.

[master_bruce]

Back in his room, he can't deny the relief. It's one thing to face what's going to happen, and accept it - and another to look it in the actual eye, and imagine the pain. He's already trying to stop himself wondering what did that to his back. The easy bet would be falling off a building, and the cape failing. He'll have to be vigilant on maintenance and testing.

But for now, he just looks at the ghost. He can't say 'thank you'. He's not grateful for this. But he's not irritated about it anymore, either.

'I guess I won't see you next year.'

He shrugs, and turns away from it.

'Goodbye.'

[christmas_future]

The whisper of air just off the skin of his neck is surely just a passing draft.

Even if it radiates a strangely inhuman chill.

Still, regardless of whether or not he again turns around, only the shadows remain.