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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[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.