Chapter 1: Stave I - Jason's Ghost
Chapter Text
Jason Todd was dead.
He had been murdered in April, beaten to death and then locked in with a bomb. He had lived through it for only seconds; long enough for his father to watch his chest grow still.
The funeral had been small and private, and the casket closed, but there was still no doubt that the boy was dead. If one did not believe it at the sight of the body, they needed only turn their eyes on the agony of the father's expression to be sure.
And dead Jason Todd was still, even in a world of magic and science and impossibilities. He lay in his pine box, sleeping peacefully and undisturbed beneath the snow-covered earth, and he would not wake ever more.
This point must be clearly understood, or the tale that follows will be empty, shallow, and confusing, when truly it is one most wonderful and strange, and tells of a kind of miracle quite different than the return of the dead, but one no less joyous and worthy.
In life, Jason Todd was known also as Robin, a hero to his people in Gotham, and partner to his father, Batman, who was also known as Bruce Wayne.
Bruce Wayne! Sorrow and pain seemed to follow that man wherever he went. A mere child when his parents were killed, and hardly grown when he claimed his first son, an orphan just like him. But the comfort they found in each other grew strained over years, until the boy split away with angry words, and Bruce Wayne could not call him back with soft ones.
And then he had found Jason Todd. His second son, also an orphan, but one who needed Bruce in a way Dick Grayson hadn't. He allowed Bruce to be his true father, and claimed his own place as his son. Slowly, the whole family drew nearer and dearer to each other.
Until Jason Todd died.
It shattered something in Bruce Wayne, the fragile sense of hope that had withstood so many tragedies before. That fragile hope had been the source of Wayne's warm smiles, booming laugh, tender gestures, and constant kindness.
And now it was gone, dead and buried with his son. He did not smile or laugh at all anymore, and moved sharply, setting about his own business and no one else's with dark impatience. As Bruce Wayne, he retreated from society altogether, rarely going out, and staring broodingly at the ground when he did. As Batman...
Criminals had always feared him, but now they were terrified. Many were brought to the hospital before jail, and many surrendered the second they were caught to avoid that fate. Though before, Batman would almost softly question some of them, and help them find other work than crime, he now bore down on all as a malevolent shadow.
Victims who used to shelter behind him, or weep away their fright against his armor, now barely ventured a hushed thanks. He never gentled his voice, never spoke comfort, and often disappeared before he had hardly been seen.
But where Batman now lacked in all these things, his new young Robin shone. He showed mercy to the merciless and care for the broken, tending to all with a hesitant smile and quiet murmur, before darting after Batman once more.
Batman had not wanted a new Robin. He had tried everything he could think of to send the boy away, but he simply would not go. Batman needs a Robin, he insisted, and snuck out when he was forbidden from going. And eventually Batman had caved. So Robin once more flew at his side.
The night of December the twenty-third was cold and misty, the fog so dense it appeared as snow suspended in the air. It ran so thick through the streets that one felt as though one was swimming through it, and everyone stayed indoors but those on errands most urgent.
Two figures stood out in the cold, perched upon the roof of one warehouse, with what, but for the fog, would have been a perfect view of the warehouse across from it. Batman stood stoic, impenetrable, glaring out at the bleary dark. Robin hovered very near, nearer than was wont, his cape drawn close about shivering shoulders. His eyes darted between Batman and the city below, and every so often he rocked forward a slight bit, as though preparing to dart close and hide under Batman's cape to warm himself.
"Merry Christmas!" called a cheerful voice, and from out of the smog stepped another hero, Nightwing by name.
Nightwing -- Dick Grayson, when he wore no mask -- leapt across the gap from the nearest building, landing neatly after a double front flip. He ruffled Robin's hair with an easy grin.
"Hn," was Batman's only acknowledgement.
"'Hn,'" Nightwing mimicked. "Is that really all you've got to say, B? On Christmas?"
"It isn't--"
"It's twevle twenty-eight AM, Batman, it's officially Christmas Eve." Nightwing folded his arms over his chest.
"Fine. Merry Christmas."
The grudging greeting was rejoined more enthusiastically, though more softly, by the young Robin, and it earned him another smile, as warming and welcome as a roaring fire.
"Stakeout tonight?" Nightwing asked conversationally, peering out through the mist as if the criminals might appear at his summons.
"Hn."
"The Bayard Deal is going down tonight," Robin murmured. "One AM."
"Even for bad guys, working on Christmas Eve seems low," Nightwing hummed.
"Are you capable of a single sentence that doesn't include Christmas?" Batman demanded.
"Not on Christmas Eve." Nightwing's tone was halfway between jest and challenge.
Batman growled. "What do you want?"
"Oracle and I are having her dad for Christmas dinner tonight. We would really like for you to be there. You too, Rob."
Robin perked up at the invitation like a dog hearing a favorite word. But one glance at the immovable Batman made him shrink down once more.
"Can't. Patrol."
"Oh, come on, B!" Nightwing complained. "The city can last one night without you. And you can last one night without brooding on a gargoyle. I think it would do you some good to take a night off."
"Robin can go if he wants," was the only concession made. "I decline."
"I-i'll stay with you," Robin said, but was drowned out by Nightwing.
"Christmas is supposed to be about family, Bruce," he said fiercely.
"No."
They stared off for a moment, Nightwing tense and furious, Batman rigid and cold. Finally Nightwing's shoulders dropped, and he shook his head.
"Don't know why I expected anything else," he muttered. He set a hand on Robin's shoulder. "Drop by for a little while, ok, Tim? If your parents don't mind."
"Ok. I'll try."
Nightwing ruffled Robin's hair once more, smile now sad, before launching off into the fog.
After the hapless criminals had thrown down their weapons in terror at the arrival of the Batman, and after they had been taken into police custody, and after all the proper documentation had been completed, Batman gruffly allowed that the night's work had been done, and set the course for the Cave.
The Cave was a rather dreary place, cold and sterile, though it hadn't always been that way. Once it had been full of spoils of war, tokens of the Rogues over whom Batman reigned victorious. Every thing had a story behind it, which eager-eyed Robins would draw slowly and delightedly out of their father. Now all those things had been pushed away, as though no victory mattered.
And none did. For it was loss that lay at the heart of the Cave.
A glass case stood not quite in the middle of the floor. Although it was clearly meant to be looked at, no one ever did. The red, green, and yellow tatters inside bore too much pain, and the epitaph beneath, A Great Hero, served as something closer to a dark challenge than a kind praise.
Now be it known, that naught else was in or near that case but the Robin uniform and the plaque. There was no photograph, or mirror, or projection, or any other thing that may explain the phenomenon that occurred as Batman passed it by.
He dared a glance -- a single, fleeting glance -- at the case. And as his eyes landed on the blank, masked face of the mannequin, it appeared for a moment that Jason Todd stood there.
Jason's face was not bloody or bruised as it appeared in nightmares, but whole, smooth, and young. He looked as he always had before death. Seriousness shrouding the mischief of a quirked mouth, wry and fond and judgmental all at once. There was something awful about seeing that face above the bloody tatters, as if the mind behind the face knew everything that had happened, and had come to accept it.
As soon as Batman blinked, the apparition was gone.
Very little could startle or frighten him, but this did. The chill ran through his very blood, and he stiffened, ceasing to breathe for a second before the vision faded from his aftersight.
He shook his head sharply to clear it, following the new young Robin to the computer, where a plate of gingerbread sat with two glasses of cocoa. Robin peeled off his mask, becoming Tim Drake, and took two cookies, trying to bite through both of them at once. Batman, cowl still covering his face, ignored both the child and the treats and sat down heavily in the chair to begin the evening's report.
After nibbling for a few minutes more, Tim ventured to say, "Batman?"
"Hn."
"Are you sure you won't go to Dick's tonight?"
The words spilled out in a rush, and when they were spoken the speaker clasped his hands behind his back, rocking a little on the balls of his feet.
"No."
A pause, then, "No, you won't go, or no, you're sure?"
"I'm sure."
Tim sighed, shoulders sinking, but in resignation rather than disappointment. He leaned back against the desk, chewing mournfully on his cookies. As if in afterthought, Batman finally grunted, "You can go."
"No. If you're patrolling, I want to come."
"Hn."
Batman hadn't truly thought the boy would accept the offer, but he'd thought it worth the try for a night without a Robin hovering over his shoulder, reminding him of everything he'd lost. His control. His purpose. His hope. His son.
His fingers stalled above they keyboard for a moment. Then he went on. Tim finished his cookies and cocoa, bade him goodnight and merry Christmas, and said he'd go upstairs to take leave of Alfred before heading home.
"Hn."
"My... my parents are going to be in town tomorrow," Tim said slowly, not looking at the hunched black figure. "I'll be a little late for patrol, but not by much."
"Hn."
Tim opened his mouth as if to speak again, then shut it and turned away.
Hours passed as Batman turned silently from one case to another, updating his work, conducting research, and refusing to surrender to the growing ache behind his eyes. At some point, Alfred came downstairs to take away the untouched dishes, frowning in silent disapproval. He had said his piece months ago, and was not in the habit of shouting to deaf ears. He wasted not even a merry Christmas before disappearing up the stairs.
It was some time after the stroke of four that Batman heard it. Or, not heard it, really. It was not a sound, but more of a breath, although there was no draft. He felt that eyes were upon him, and in one smooth motion stood, turned, and slid into a stance ready to fight.
And froze.
"Hey, B."
The boy was unmistakable. Dark unruly curls fell half in front of bright blue eyes, which stared out, sad and grim, above a mouth that had no quirk of humor. His hands were hidden in the pocket of that overlarge red hoodie, but were yet visible, as his whole being was transparent. But for that detail, it could have almost seemed that he had come down from the manor to bring Bruce up to bed.
"What is this?" Batman snarled. He had not been exposed to hallucinogens. He had not fallen asleep to dream, nor been awake so long that his imagination could fool him in such a way. And he knew of no shapeshifter that could imitate incorporeality.
The apparition shrugged one shoulder. "Call it an intervention."
"What are you?" Batman repeated.
"World's greatest detective," the boy scoffed humorlessly. "I'm a ghost, Bruce. Boo."
"Impossible."
"Is it?"
"Yes," Batman ground through his teeth.
The specter shook its head. "You live in a world with aliens and demigods, but a ghost is too much? Why?"
Batman opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could not aloud give the answer that was most true. That answer was pain. Agony, it was -- or would be, since he did not believe in ghosts -- to think that his son, that indeed everyone whom he had lost, roamed the earth still, aloof and unattainable.
And that this was the first time one had ever looked in on him.
"Aliens and demigods have tangible proof of their existence."
The spirit rolled its eyes to the heavens.
"First of all, that's hella tangible-ist. Second, are you seriously trying to argue that lack of proof constitutes proof of nonexistence? That was the first fucking lesson you ever taught me, Bruce, that that argument is bullshit."
"Fine!" Batman snapped. "Say you are a ghost. Why are you here? Why now?"
"Because you've fucked up, Bruce." The spirit's eyes blazed, and Batman fell back a step. "Because you're so fucking lost that nothing else has got you back on track, and if you don't listen now, then nothing ever will."
"I'm not-- What are you--"
"Look at yourself, Bruce!" The ghost cried, throwing up his hands. "Look at what you've done and what people say about you! Batman is a monster in the shadows. Bruce is a shut off hardass who can't tell his own kids 'merry Christmas.'
"Remember last year, Bruce? Do you? Because I sure do. We went to the Alley. We had almost three hundred coats that we passed out, and we talked to the people. We connected with them, cared about them, did everything we could. And when we came home, you connected and cared for me and Dick, and I thought... I thought, I have the best dad in the damn world."
The spirit's form of breath shuddered, and his eyes shone with a watery gleam that Bruce recognized with a start as tears. He stepped closer, reaching out and murmuring, "Jaylad..." but his hand passed through the apparition's cool cheek.
"You have a purpose, Bruce. You are not Gotham's demon, you're its hope. You exist to show them that they're not alone. That they get a chance for something better. That was what you wanted, what you set out to do. But you've lost sight of it. And you have to get it back, or you'll lose a whole lot more."
"I've already lost you!" Batman yelled.
The bats on the ceiling chittered and shrieked, flapping their wings in distress. The echo faded away, and there was silence for a moment as the spectre stared solemnly at the living man's mask.
"I don't have much time left," he said quietly. "Three more spirits are going to come tonight. They can show you things I can't. Listen to them. Please, Bruce, listen to them. You don't wanna be on this path."
Th,e ghost's color began to fade, the white turning to a glow that began to brighten steadily, until Batman had to squint and raise his hand to his eyes.
"Jason, wait!" he cried. "Don't go!"
"I can't!" the spectre laughed bitterly. "You won't let me. That's your problem."
Faintly came the sound of music, of countless voices raised in a glorious, unintelligible song. In the glow surrounding the pure white spirit, Batman thought he could see other glowing people. There were two he knew, and each rested a hand on Jason's shoulder, saddened smiles on their lips.
Then the glow faded. Batman blinked, vision suddenly spotty and black in the new darkness. With his eyes closed, he could still see the spirit.
He finally pushed the mask back from his face, and ran a hand through his hair. He looked mournfully for a moment at the place where the spirit had stood, then at the case which held its memory. Then he shook his head and turned to go up the stairs.
"Dream," he told himself. "Nothing more."
He changed and laid down to bed, and instantly fell asleep.
Chapter 2: Stave II - The Ghost of Christmas Past
Notes:
Sorry this took forever. We're reading ACC aloud as a family and I generally write as far as we read each day.
Chapter Text
Bruce woke with a start, hearing the chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall. It signaled that it was to announce the hour, and then began its declaration with low, booming dongs.
He listened, and frowned, determining he must somehow have got off count, otherwise it would have chimed twelve. He had, of course, slept in til noon many times, but there was no tell-tale shine from the curtains to reassure him that this was again the case. He reached for the phone on the nightstand, that it might settle the matter, but found it to be drained of its battery.
Bruce huffed in annoyance and groped in the dark for the cord. When it continued to evade his fingers, he heaved a great sigh and flung off the blankets, getting out of bed and turning on the lamp to look for the cord with his sight. That way it was located almost instantly, and the cable was connected forthwith.
The screen refused to show anything, not the time, nor the bland, blank background, nor even a symbol to indicate that it was charging. Its behavior was concerning enough that Bruce would have suspected an EMP if he were in any place other than his own home.
As he had still failed to confirm whether it was indeed twelve, and that whether it was in morning or night, Bruce slung a dressing gown over his pajamas and ventured out into the hall, intent upon finding another teller of time.
He found many, to be sure, but they all universally declared that it was twelve o'clock... yet none would say which. Every electronic clock he passed flashed the number as though their plugs had been pulled, yet when Bruce checked, they were all perfectly in place. He wondered whether the power had been lost, but the generators in the cave made such a thing impossible.
Magic, a voice murmured in his mind. Jason. Something supernatural.
"Ridiculous," he told himself aloud, and shook his head sharply, as if the action might dislodge said nonsense from his mind.
It did not in fact dislodge it. If anything, it made the wonder more intense, the disbelief more like denial, and the surety of earthly explanations waned with every clock Bruce passed.
Was it so impossible that ghosts existed? Was it so impossible that he has misremembered being tagged with a hallucinogen? Was he asleep the whole time until now, and the visitation a mere dream?
No... if that were so he could not have got up from the cave. He never sleep-walked.
As Bruce wandered, he heard the clock chime again. So blind he'd been to the passage of time in his quest to find it out, that he started when it promised to tell once more the hour: ONE.
At once there was a great flash of light, nearly blinding Bruce, and he staggered, throwing his hand before his eyes. When the light faded at last it did not go out entirely. Instead it shone up from the head of the figure that had appeared before Bruce, near enough that he could reach out and take its hand.
It was a very strange figure. Though at first it seemed to be a child, due to its stature, it, upon closer inspection, revealed its age to be closer to that of an old man. Yet, not old, as there were no wrinkles, and its limbs were muscular and strong. Perhaps some kind of ageless dwarf or gnome it was, with its long snow-white hair and white tunic trimmed with summer flowers. In contradiction to such ornament, it held a sprig of holly in one hand, and in the other a cap not unlike those which snuffed out candles. As Bruce stared at it, he found that the limbs, and even the head and torso of the figure, waxed and waned from sight, making all sorts of strange and even some grotesque arrangements of its anatomy.
"Are you one of the spirits Jason told me would come?" Bruce asked it.
"I am."
The voice was low, much lower than even Batman's, but was singularly gentle and soft.
"What kind of spirit are you, then?" Bruce continued, not answering his own question of why he entertained the notion of it being real at all. "You're not a ghost."
"I am a ghost," returned the spirit. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"Long past?"
"Your past."
Bruce squinted at it, trying to find in its form any resemblance whatsoever between the spirit and his memories of the holiday. He found that the bright light was confounding him, and asked, irritated, if it could not be put out, or at least dimmed.
"What!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Is not the fading of your own light enough? Must you darken all who come about you as well?"
Bruce decided the argument was not worth its reward, not least because he didn't understand what the spirit meant, and asked what was its purpose in coming to him.
"Your reclamation," it answered. "Take heed. Walk with me."
So saying, it reached out and took Bruce by the arm. Though its grip was gentle and warmer than expected, Bruce had to fight down the instinct to tear away from it. He had not been kindly touched in a long time, and the memories threatened to swallow and drown him. He could not, however, have torn away if he had tried. For all his own great strength and for the easy hold of the spirit, it drew him on unrelenting, and he followed down familiar halls.
Though all was dark and ordinary along the route, the house changed the instant Bruce and the spirit stepped through the doorway of the family parlor. The darkness of the night was lit into bright midafternoon, and rather than pure windy white, there was a gentle, cheerful fall of snow outside the window. Though the parlor that morning had sat undecorated, unused, and only dustless due to Alfred's tender care, it now brimmed with life and Christmas cheer in every corner.
A great fir, fifteen feet tall at least, took up nearly a quarter of the room, trimmed in white fairylights and strung-popcorn tinsel. Gay baubles gleamed on every branch in colors of red and gold, and a benevolent angel smiled down from on high. Holly was laid across the mantle of the fireplace, the shelves of bookcases, even the sills of windows, and sweet-smelling candles in holiday shades were twinkling on every table.
"Good God," Bruce murmured.
"Are those tears?" the Ghost asked mildly, turning its gaze upon Bruce's face.
He denied it with a mutter and shake of his head.
"The sight is familiar to you, though."
A nod. "We had it just like this every year when I was a child."
"Strange that now it should all lay bare," observed the Ghost.
Bruce was about to say something of busyness or adulthood, but found that the words caught in his throat as three people came, laughing, into the room.
He knew them all. He knew them so well. The man, as tall but not quite as broad as Bruce, with his twinkling blue eyes and dark hair and greying mustache; the woman with her playful smile and brown curls, unbroken chain of pearls round her throat; the boy, beaming and laughing, with his father's looks and his mother's air.
"Mom..." Bruce started forward, reaching out, but the woman did not respond. She kissed the child's head and ushered him towards the tree, then stepped back to lean her head on her husband's shoulder.
"These are but shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "They have no consciousness of us."
Why did Bruce's numb heart warm and leap at the sight? Why did the tears now pour undeniably down his cheeks, as if two frozen rivers now were thawed? Why did such shadows both create and then soothe a burning ache inside his chest?
"This is the last time they will all be gathered so," said the spirit.
Bruce said he knew it. And he sobbed.
"Let us see another Christmas," said the ghost, and the scene changed.
The decorations around the room were more or less the same. The year's tree was a different height but similar girth, and now had many more ornaments of all shapes and colors. A gingerbread house, done up messily by childish hands, sat upon the coffee table, several of its candies missing as though plucked off and popped in little mouths. Christmas carols trilled from the radio in the corner, harmonized with by young boys sitting on the floor round the coffee table.
One of the boys could hardly be considered such, with his height and build much more like a man's. Yet there remained a youthful joy in his features, and in the carelessness with which he tossed his dark hair, and in the mischief in his blue eyes, that assured there was much of his child self left in him.
The other boy was a mere boy, head hardly reaching the shoulder of his elder, even when they were seated. He too had dark hair and blue eyes, and joy and mischief in his air. His frame was slight, and the cherub cheeks of childhood were sunken in too early, marking him the victim of long, great hunger.
With the boys, seated on the armchair before the fire, was a man, very like the man in the first scene, but very like the boy also. It was Bruce himself, naturally, yet one could hardly know this Bruce from the past as the same of from the present! for while long ago he beamed brightly and laughed heartily, now his looks were little better than scowls and his laughter was silenced.
The door to the parlor opened, and one more man entered, bearing a tray of steaming mugs and colorful cookies. This man was old, with white hair and mustache, and weary lines on his face. Yet he smiled, warm and contented, and took the seat to the past Bruce's side, setting down the tray and letting the boys ransack its contents.
"Perfect as ever, Alfred," smiled the older boy.
"Thank you, Master Dick," the man smiled back.
After each had taken his own mug and stack of cookies from the tray, it was set aside, and its place was taken by a great gameboard with a colorful map. The men and boys began setting it up, taking colorful wooden pieces out of small bags and setting them out. They began the game, rolling dice and moving their pieces, stopping to quarrell good-naturedly with each other, making and breaking alliances left and right.
The younger boy watched in dismay as his red pieces slowly disappeared from the board. He made a great show near the end as his brother threatened his last territory of pleading for mercy, gripping the older boy's shirt in supplication and even conjuring tears.
His brother laughed, shook his head, and swept the last red soldier off the board.
The boy pouted sulkily, shifting to lean against Bruce's legs. He smiled and stroked a hand through the boy's curls.
The older boy's blue pieces continued to spread across the board, and his smile spread with them, nearly splitting his face when he wiped out the last of Bruce's green men.
As the battle between blue and the old man's yellow raged on, the young boy's head began to nod and his eyelids to droop, until finally he fell asleep, forehead resting on his father's knee.
During the whole game, the Bruce that stood at the spirit's side shook with silent sobs, tears spilling down his cheeks as he watched the scene, eyes never leaving the youngest boy. At some antics he would laugh through his tears, at others murmur, "Oh, my Jaylad." It wasn't until the game broke up entirely, and his past self lifted the boy in his arms to carry him to bed, that Bruce turned to the spirit beside him and said, in a choked voice, "I don't know if I should thank you or damn you."
"And why is that?" the spirit questioned.
Bruce shook his head, too overcome to speak, and turned back to the scene. The vision of himself passed right by him as it went out, child in his arms, and he reached out to tenderly cradle the dark head. Then the two passed away, and he reluctantly turned his attention to the old and young men, shaking each other's hands in congratulations of a game well-played. His eyes lingered on the youth, and his brow pinched with sadness.
"What is the matter?" inquired the spirit.
"Nothing."
"Something, I think."
Bruce shook his head and said quietly, "I was... rather short with Dick earlier, that's all. I should not have been."
"My time grows short," said the spirit, rather than replying. "Quick!"
Bruce hardly had time to wonder what it was he had to be quick about before the scene changed. Rather than his home, he was in Robinson Park, all glistening with snow and ice, with a chill breeze upon the air. His past self stood bundled in a coat and scarf, and he was younger by a few years than in the previous vision. His brow was knit with worry, and he glanced all about him, as if anticipating danger, fairly ignoring the fair sight beside him. There stood a beautiful woman in a long cloak. Her hair was long, thick, and dark, her skin a warm bronze, and her eyes a vibrant green. She was shaking her head.
"You are changed, beloved," she said. "The wisdom I loved in you has turned to paranoia; it stifles me."
"Talia, you see what kind of world we live in," Bruce returned, impatient. "Dangers neither of us ever dreamed of are becoming commonplace. I have to be prepared to face those threats, I have to keep us all safe."
"You are so afraid. Of failure, of loss, of yourself, too -- it drives you, Bruce, this fear! Can you not see that? Where is your courage? Where is your strength? You've let them go, so desperate to keep hold of the few things you have left you don't trust to them to aid you."
"They won't always be enough, Talia!" Bruce cried. "Don't you understand, I... I can't be sure I can protect you any other way."
Talia shook her head. Her eyes gleamed with something like tears.
"I have never wanted your protection, beloved," she told him softly. "I have only ever asked to stand -- and to fight -- at your side. I want to still, I do, and I hate that it has come to this, but you need me to cower behind you, and that is something I will not do. Your love has become smothering, and I have to breathe. And so... I... I must go."
"Go?" Bruce whispered.
She nodded, and one tear traced down her cheek. "I am leaving, Bruce. I must, for both our sakes. Perhaps if you have less to lose, fear will loosen its grip on you. I hope that is the case. And perhaps, one day, if you recover those things which first made me fall in love with you -- if you are willing to let me stand at your side -- we can speak of us again. But for now..."
She stepped forward, taking his stunned face in one hand and pressing a kiss to his lips.
"Goodbye, beloved."
He stared as she turned and left him. From his place at the ghost's side, Bruce could see her this time, as she walked away. Tears fell freely down her face, and she pressed one gloved hand to her stomach. Then she was out of sight.
"That's enough," Bruce said, turning to the spirit. Anger warred with the pain that caused it, and the pair caused his voice to tremble as he repeated, "That's enough. I don't want to see anything else."
"One shadow more," exclaimed the spirit.
"No!" Bruce said, voice rising to a shout. "I said that's enough. Take me home. Now!"
But the spirit listened not, and its grip held fast although Bruce struggled against it, and he found that none of his training or tricks could make it move, let alone release its hold, and he had no choice but to see the last shadow.
The scene around him was a finely furnished room of silks and golden trinkets, with low tables and couches and gauzy curtains hiding a queenly bed. The same woman as before lay on her side across several cushions, a wide, warm smile upon her face as she gazed down at the small figure which lay beside her.
This was a small boy which shared her dark skin and green eyes, but whose hair was a deep black, and whose nose looked somewhat more European than hers. Still, undoubtedly she was his mother, and Bruce gasped softly, heart rising and stomach sinking, as he guessed the other half of his parentage.
The child shrieked in laughter as the mother tickled him all over, wiggling fingers moving from his belly, to his shoulder, to his feet, to his neck, as he swatted at her hands and squirmed and tried to get away. He nearly succeeded before she lurched to roll right on top of him, pinning his arms to his sides with her embrace and proceeding to press kiss after kiss to his hair.
"Mother!" he cried in poorly concealed delight. "Mother, release me this instant!"
"You must fight your way out, little bat," the woman said, laughing. "Use all your strength and cleverness if you want to escape."
The child squinted, pursing his lips in thought. The shape of his mouth then changed to a smile as he struck upon an idea. He went utterly limp in his mother's arms, waited for her to laugh in triumph, then quick as a flash braced his hands and feet against the cushions and scooted down out of her arms.
Free, he leapt to his feet and darted back, crowing in victory. His mother sat up, congratulating and praising him, and making him fairly glow with pride. Then he came back, sitting in her lap and letting her cradle him calmly, bending to rub her nose against his.
"Won't you tell me more about him, Mother?" the child asked softly.
Talia drew a breath like a quiet sigh. "Very well," she murmured. "Your father had a great heart, dear one. He loved with all his being, and it was his greatest power, even more than his mind. It was once the source for his strength and courage, the thing which drove his every action. And it was what I loved best of him."
"Once?" the boy asked. "Is it not still?"
"No," answered the mother, with a slow shake of her head. "It is not still."
"Take me home," Bruce commanded the spirit, quiet, firm, and broken.
"I told you these were shadows of things that have been," said the ghost. "That they are what they are, do not blame me."
"Take me home! I don't want to see any more! I can't watch this!"
Bruce turned to glare at the spirit, but in its face, he could see all the other faces. His father and mother. His beloved. His sons. He could not bear the sight and grappled with the spirit, striking at it and trying to wrench free, as if its grip upon his arm was the only thing which held him in that painful time and place.
Though the spirit offered no resistance, each effort was fruitless until, with a snarl of frustration, Bruce seized the cap and thrust it over the spirit's head, whereupon it dropped, the light snuffed out.
He discovered himself to be panting and exhausted, but in his own home once more, in the hall where the spirit had first appeared. Though the clock told him not even a minute had passed since that fateful stroke of one, he felt that he had been awake an age, and had time only to stagger back to his bedroom before falling upon his pillow and drifting to sleep once more.
Chapter 3: Stave III - The Ghost of Christmas Present
Chapter Text
Bruce awoke once more with a start, hearing the clock again strike One. He frowned, confident that it was during the night, yet also confident that he had not passed a whole day between his time with the spirit and his second rest. He thought to himself with a scowl that the spirits must somehow be messing with time, and sincerely hoped that when they had all had their say he would be restored to the hour at which he'd fallen asleep on the morning of the twenty-fourth. Or at least, some time on the twenty-fourth, and preferably of the same year as the one he'd left.
Determined not to be taken by surprise by this ghost, Bruce got up out of bed and removed himself to the armchair to wait, expecting that it would not be for long. In fact, he was quite inclined to think the spirit tardy, for its counterpart had appeared at the very stroke of the hour, until he saw from under the door to his room a blaze of ruddy light.
Considering the light part guide and part instruction, Bruce rose and approached it hesitantly. The moment his hand set upon the doorknob, he heard a booming voice call his name and bid him come out. He obeyed.
The hallway outside his room was utterly transformed from his midnight wanderings. It was now lit with a warm and cheery fire, contained though there was no fireplace, and all along the walls was draped holly, ivy, and mistletoe in vibrant greens and reds and snowy whites. Heaped upon the floor to form a kind of throne were all sorts of wonderful parts of a Christmas feast, much of it meat and game, but with a great good showing of things like apples, oranges, pears, cakes, pies, and bowls of punch, everything filling the air with a delicious smell that neither fought nor oppressed its fellows.
Upon this throne reclined a jolly giant bearing a glowing torch like a cornucopia, from which shone the light which had led Bruce outside. The spirit's eyes were kind and warm, and somehow because of this their gaze was hard to meet. He wore a green robe edged in white fur, which hung so loosely about him that it scarcely covered his breast, which seemed to dare and defy the temperature to chill it. The spirit's feet were also bare, and upon his curly brown head rested a wreath of holly, set about with icicles.
"Come out!" it exclaimed, at the sight of Bruce. "Come out, and know me better, man. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present!"
Seeing the amazement on Bruce's face, the spirit laughed and said, "You have never seen the like of me before."
"No," came the quiet answer.
"Have you never walked forth with the younger members of my family? Meaning, for I am youngest yet, my elder brothers born these shortly passed years?"
"The older of them, I imagine," Bruce murmured. "And perhaps the youngest before you."
"Excellent!" cried the spirit, rising. "Then perhaps these sights may be more welcome and familiar to you than I had hoped."
"Not if they're like the those the first spirit showed me," Bruce said under his breath. Then, to the spirit's hearing, "But I suppose you're trying to teach me something, so I will listen."
"Touch my robe!"
Bruce obeyed, and instantly the hall disappeared, and all its Christmas trappings with it, and they stood in a bright kitchen, wide and spacious, with long granite countertops where pieces of a great meal were set out in various stages of completion. The oven fans (for there were two ovens) were whirring, and many saucepans bubbled on the stove, everything exuding delicious smells.
Hurrying to and fro around the island, stirring the pots and peeping into the ovens, taking dishes from one place and setting them in another, only to realize their first location was the more suitable, was a boy in adolescence, with dark hair falling into his pale blue eyes. His face had a pink flush, whether from excitement or the heat of his endeavors, and on his lips was a nervous, distracted smile.
"Tim," Bruce murmured in surprise. Then, looking about, asked of no one in particular, "Where are Jack and Janet?"
"Have a little patience, man," said the Ghost. "You will soon learn."
Bruce looked askance at him, concerned by the verb, but the spirit said nothing more, and Bruce was obliged to return his attention to Tim, who hummed a few bars of a carol as he poured gravy into a boat.
It was then that a cheerful trill and buzz sounded from somewhere under a mess of festive towels. Tim dropped a spoon into a saucepan, fished it out, and hurried over, swiping his hands against his jeans to clean them before picking up the ringing cellphone with an expression that combined hope and dread.
"Hi, Mom," he said upon answering, and tucked the phone against his shoulder to return to his pots. "Merry Christmas!"
The answer caused him to smile.
"I'm fine, Mom. Are you and Dad almost home? Dinner's just about ready."
He blushed at the next return, saying, "Yeah..." but then his smile faded.
"What? What's wrong, Mom?"
As he listened, his posture straightened. He set down the spoons and took the phone in hand again, looking out unseeing at the wall.
"No... No! Mom..." His breath came faster, and he shook his head sharply. "But, Mom, it's Christmas. You have to come back. No, one, just one day, Mom..."
There was a hitch, and Tim's eyes started to glisten. Bruce unconsciously stepped forward, one arm lifting towards the boy.
"I get it," Tim whispered. "No. No, I..." A bitter, tearful laugh. "Mom, he's found a new dig every time for the past three years when you're supposed to come home, I think I can recognize a pattern."
He set down his spoons and switched off the burners and the oven, then leaned against the countertop and sank down to sit with his knees drawn up to his chest.
"I know. I love you too, Mom. Y-yeah."
The call ended. Tim's hand fell to his side, his head dropped against his knees, and he began to weep.
His cries were fast and bitter, and left him gasping as one who lies upon death, making his thin frame shudder and wrench. His face was hidden, but when he swiped violently at his eyes his sleeve came away soaked.
"Oh, Tim," Bruce murmured.
He crossed the distance and sank to his knees beside the boy, reaching out to offer comfort before remembering that he was neither seen, nor felt, nor heard.
"Tell me," he implored the spirit, looking up at it, "When was the last time his parents came home?"
"Twas my elder brother by four years that last saw them in this house," replied the Ghost.
"And..." Bruce asked, though he expected and dreaded what the answer must be. "And won't they ever come?"
"Never."
"Impossible!" Bruce cried, rising. "How could anyone be that way? Their son is alive and yet they won't even live with him! Don't they understand what they're losing? I'd give anything, anything to see my son again, and they willfully act like theirs doesn't exist!"
"Oh!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Oh, so there is yet some feeling in that cold, numb heart! Go on, man! Go on, how should they care for the boy?"
"They should come home! Give him their time, their affection! Eat with him, be there to tell him good morning and good night, talk with him, support him, take care of him, give him a goddamn hug!"
"Is there no one who can do these things?"
The heat left Bruce at the pointed look on the Ghost's face, and he faltered.
"I'm not his father," he said quietly.
"Not his father," sneered the spirit. "And when has that stopped you before? When have you seen a miserable creature and let it suffer because no one had given it to your charge? Did not you fight all the social workers in the state for the guardianship of an orphan circus performer? Did not you bring into your home a ragged street urchin? Where now is that generous, jealous love? You have thrown it away because its warmth burned you, and in so doing you leave too many more lost in the cold!"
Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but was spared the challenge of finding words by Tim, whose sobs had settled, and who had risen to his feet. Man and Ghost watched in silence as the boy set about packaging and storing the great feast, and then about washing the dishes. No longer did he move with alacrity and pride. Now he was slow and dull, and may as well have been an automaton as a boy, for the only hint of feeling was in the drying tears upon his face.
"Come," said the Ghost. "Let us look upon another scene."
As soon as the words were uttered, the bright, cold kitchen was gone, replaced by a room with low couches and swaths of silk, and many expensive beautiful things set about it. Bruce recognized it instantly by its occupants, the woman and the young boy whom he had seen in it the night before.
He was quite surprised to see the two each with a steaming mug of cocoa and a wrapped present beside them, sitting before a low table strewn with bowls of candies, frosting, and gingerbread.
"This is not a lesson in architecture, Mother," said the boy, in an imperious, haughty tone. "This gingerbread has no structural integrity whatsoever, and the icing hardly aids it."
"Consider it a lesson in western culture, then," suggested Talia, pressing a gumdrop to the top of her palace and primly licking the excess frosting from her fingertips. "Or in culinary art form."
This latter idea seemed to please the boy more than the others. "I suppose it could be made rather artistic," he allowed, tilting his head as if that would make the view more promising.
"Indeed. I once saw a gingerbread house so large and well-constructed it used to be let out for nights as a hotel."
"Impossible!" the boy cried.
"Not at all," returned his mother. "When you're older, Damian, I'll take you, and we'll spend the night there together."
The boy was quiet a moment, and then asked, "Will this be when you take me to meet my father, Mother?"
Talia slowly set two more flat candies along the winding path she was creating before saying, "Perhaps."
"Will you truly take me to see him someday, Mother?"
She sighed. "That depends on him, my darling."
Bruce's face pinched, and he felt as if a hand had grasped his heart in a brutal grip to arrest it. The pain he had felt when he watched her leave him was but a twinge compared to this thought, that she did not trust him to love their son as he ought.
"Tell me," he asked the spirit, voice so level it sounded cold, "will we meet?"
"I see the boy grown to a man. I see a sword at his side, and gold adorning him. I see him kneel before the throne of an old man who is hard and stern. His mother watches, but his father is not to be seen. If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, you shall never see your son after this night."
"No," Bruce said, shaking his head. "No, that can't be. You're not seeing enough. You only see one day of each year, you don't know that."
"If these shadows remain unaltered by the future," the Ghost repeated, "you shall never see your son after this night. But why should that matter? The son you could have you have closed your heart to, and the son you chased away you refuse to let back in! Why think you that you could love this child any different?"
At this Bruce fell silent and still. He looked back at the boy mournfully, and observed disappointment and resignation on his face. With another pang, he realized how like the expression was to Tim's only moments before, and for a moment his gaze could resolve no image at all as he wondered how he could have fallen to the pitiful sort of parent in which category the Drakes were sorted. Jason's words returned to his mind, and twisted the knife in his chest.
"Shall we see how your last son gets on?" said the Ghost.
It was good that the question was for mere show, for Bruce could not have answered in either case, so torn was he between the wish to see and the wish to imagine just how pleasant or miserable was the holiday without him. No sooner had the spirit spoken then the elegant chamber was replaced by a cozy room whose window was the face of a giant clock, and whose occupants, seated on couches and nursing glasses of eggnog, were laughing, sighing, and shaking their heads.
"Hn," growled the young man with affected hostility. "That's his entire conversation! I don't think he said more than five words together, and he wouldn't have with Two-Face's gun to his head!"
The speaker was, of course, Dick Grayson, who was recounting the previous night's encounter with his foster father to his wife and father-in-law. He was dressed gaily in a colorful Christmas sweater, and his handsome face was flushed pink from excitement, eggnog, or both. Though his eyes sparkled with mirth, there was a slight bit of sadness behind them as well, which only those who knew him best could have detected.
His fair bride shook her head, rolling her eyes. She was a fiery, beautiful girl, with vibrant red locks, green eyes that glinted behind her glasses, and a slight smattering of freckles that at once seemed both carefully and heedlessly arranged across her face. She sat leaning against the arm of the couch, feet in her husband's lap. Her wheelchair, which had Christmas ribbon twined round the armrests, sat abandoned behind the couch.
"I'm amazed you can laugh about it, Dick," she said. "I don't know anymore whether to call it pitiful or concerning."
"Well, I have to laugh about it," Dick said, sobering, "or I'll cry, and I've had enough of that. But, still, I'll gladly take a few grunts and growls as opposed to nothing."
"A few grunts and growls is basically nothing," pointed out the last man.
This was an older man, and though there was hardly any auburn to be seen among the grey of his hair and mustache, one would be entirely wrong to call him elderly, for his eyes (green like his daughter's) were still sharp, his wit still quick, and his limbs still strong, excepting the one knee which had been injured years ago, and set itself twinging and irritating with changes in the weather.
"I guess so," Dick allowed, "but it's all he has left to give, and I'm one of the only ones he'll give it to." He sighed. "I can't help but hope if I keep trying he'll open up again, even by a fraction. It's not that I need his scraps, but God knows Tim could use them, and Bruce could, too, I think. I doubt he realizes how much shutting down is hurting himself. If I can make him growl out a merry Christmas or even just remind him that there is something left in the world as happy as Christmas, then that's more joy than he's given himself in half a year."
There was a bit of silence just after this, as though they all were contemplating, or perhaps praying that what Dick said might be so. Then, rallying the cheerful spirits which the holiday demanded, the young woman said, "I never took you for a philosophizing drunk, babe."
"I am not drunk," Dick snorted. "Just mildly tipsy."
"Mmhm, of course, dear."
The mood lightened as another round was poured. The three then set themselves to various games and entertainments, the combination of alcohol and festive spirits inducing them to act rather more like children than they ever did otherwise. A videogame was set up and remotes passed out, and the older man swore he ought to arrest the younger for his drunk driving, though it only be onscreen. This was soon made all the more laughable a joke however, as the accused came in first place and the accuser in ninth. A game of cards was next, and here Dick was powerless to disguise the promise of each hand, whereas his wife maintained a singularly level expression from the moment of the first deal to the moment the cards were put away, and won herself a dozen Christmas cookies, seven candy canes, nine packets of cocoa, and nearly a hundred dollars cash.
It was then that Dick sprang up and declared they ought to play charades, and convinced the other two that it could indeed be done by three people alone. He delivered a laptop into the arms of the young woman, and in moments she had created a random generator of prompts, and set it on the coffee table, ready to be used.
They took several turns at it, the men standing and the woman seated in her wheelchair, and Bruce, forgetting for a while all of the tormenting visions, as well as the fact that he was invisible and inaudible, shouted out guesses that were nearly always correct. There was a tree, a teapot, an aviator, a pair of scissors, a soldier, a dog, a soccer ball, and a clock before Dick got up and announced he'd take the last turn.
When he saw his prompt he burst into uproarious laughter, and was made completely insensible for nearly a minute in full, and could only nod and shake his head when the others asked whether he was alright or if there were something the matter. At last he recovered himself, and began to act, although he was forced to restart after each guess, for these sent him into fresh peals. He stood with one leg propped on the coffee table and peered out into the room stoically, but was not George Washington crossing the Delaware. He then launched into a flurry of punches and kicks, but was not a boxer. Nor was he a programmer when he pulled the computer towards himself and began typing ceaselessly, glaring intently at the screen. He was not a vampire, nor ghost, nor any other thing which they guessed, until finally, as he began to raise his hands to his head, his wife cried out, "I've got it! Batman!"
Batman he was, and they all had a raucous laugh at the wonder they did not get it at once, although the woman tried to argue that saying no to vampire utterly threw her off for a good while, and should have been considered close enough.
Bruce was laughing too hard to have even a thought of defending himself, for he had seen at once all his likeness in Dick's affectations, and thought he made for a very good Batman indeed, save for all the fits of giggles. He would gladly have said this, and more, had he been allowed, but no sooner did Dick's wife suggest bed then the Ghost whisked him off again.
They journeyed many other places for quite some time, visiting some that Bruce knew, but many more that he did not, and had indeed never met. Everywhere they went they left it in a lighter, merrier way, owing, Bruce quickly discerned, to the spirit's presence. There came out of his torch a beautiful twinkling, which settled over every person, but the moreso on those who were wanting in some way, whether for joy, for food, for warmth, for peace, for company, or any other thing.
As these many hours passed, or perhaps, these seeming hours, for he could not be quite certain whether time was passing outside this spirit realm, Bruce observed the spirit growing old; his hair whitened, and wrinkles formed on clear skin, and his step came not quite so quick. He did not remark upon the change until they left a children's pageant in Somerset, when he said, "If your lifespan is this one day, what happens at the end of it?"
"Can you not guess?" said the spirit. "I by my nature become one with the Ghost of Christmas Past! It shall happen at midnight, and hark! the time is drawing near."
And indeed, as he spoke, the church bells rang the three-quarters past eleven.
While he had observed the spirit's increasing age, Bruce had noticed one thing more, which he now permitted himself to inquire of, since his first query had been permitted.
"There's some creature under your robe that I can see moving. What is it?"
"Why, it is something you know well, I daresay!" exclaimed the spirit, drawing back his robe.
From the folds came forth two children -- wretched, miserable looking children. They knelt down at the spirit's feet and clung to his robe with claw-like fingers. They were boy and girl, skeletal, ragged, pale creatures, shrinking and shuddering. She wept tears which streaked through grime on her face, and opened and closed her mouth in grotesque, silent wails, now and again trying to stifle them by putting her cracked and bloodied fist in her mouth. He stared out with wide round eyes that were half-unseeing, lips twisted into an eternal scream, and held his hands before his face as if to ward off blows.
Bruce could but stare in horror, for pity commanded him to run to their comfort and aid while revulsion urged him to flee the other way. He reached desperately for some logic, some concrete fact which could tell him what to do, and in a strangled voice asked, "Who are they?"
"They are the children of Man," said the spirit, "and they cling to me to comfort and cover them for their fathers. This boy is Fear; this girl Grief. Beware them both, and all their kin, but beware most of all this boy, for upon his brow I see written that which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny them! Wallow in them! Make them your sole companions and they shall never leave you! And bide the end!"
"Isn't there any way to help them?" Bruce cried.
"Let them go," said the spirit.
The clock struck twelve.
The Ghost disappeared, and Bruce felt his heartbeat quicken as he found he was still on the streets, now alone, the terrible children still haunting his mind. He remembered that Jason said there were to be three spirits, and beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist upon the ground toward him.
Notes:
I finally feel like a genuine ao3 author, because I can now tell you a wild story about why this chapter is late.
I was going to get something from our basement and heard a beep, and lo and behold, a pipe for our water system had frozen. So my dad was able to schedule it to do its reset later in the evening rather than 2 am. We thought we could just reroute the one thing and use a couple tubs/buckets to hold the water, but something went wrong, and water just kept GUSHING, so we spent 2 hours on Christmas Eve running a bucket brigade and borrowing garbage cans from neighbors trying to keep our basement from flooding.
The next night, at the end of Christmas Day, we all went to bed, and then my brother hears this buzz that signals the start of the cycle. He runs to wake mom and I jerk up having heard water gushing, so we run down to see the bucket filling again and scream for dad to come help, and spent ANOTHER hour/hour and a half running a bucket brigade only slightly less frenzied than the one before.
Chapter 4: Stave IV - The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come
Notes:
*walking in late with eggnog and a silk scarf i dramatically flip off my shoulder* IM BACK DARLINGS!
Legit I've been waiting to write this all year I am so excited lets fuckin GO
Also this specific chapter is written for Christmas Countdown Playlist Day 6: Major Character Death 😈🙃🫠
Tw for vague suicidal ideation from Bruce
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The dark shadow drew near, as slow and inexorable as a midnight, and Bruce felt a sharp chill slip through his veins which made his frame tremble to warm itself.
This spirit had no incongruent decorations or shifts of shape as had the first, and no glow or accessories as had the second. He was nothing more than a cloak draped over some vaguely anthropic shape, so dark it seemed not only to absorb light but to murder it. Bruce hoped with silent desperation that its form was only a reflection of futurity's uncertainty, and not of the specific future it had come to reveal to him. Surely, that must be the case, for with the lessons of Jason and the other spirits swirling towards clarity within his mind, he thought the future he was to see must take a turn towards the joyous.
Though it now stood but a pace away, the spirit did not introduce itself, and so Bruce cautiously ventured, "You are the Ghost of Christmas Future, aren't you?"
The folds of the hood undulated to reflect a nodding motion.
"And you're here to show me things that will happen in the years following the one I'm in now."
Another wordless nod. Bruce wondered, a bit detached, whether this was how people felt when interacting with Batman.
"Very well," said he. "Show me."
The spirit turned and began to move, seeming almost to float above the ground. Bruce followed after it, wrapping his arms round himself in an effort to abate the chill that still wracked through his body now and again.
In only a few paces, the dingy townhouse row he had been in dissolved, replaced by boxy warehouses and the smell of fish, and the faint glint of moonlight on a rippling bay.
There were no merry-makers here, no one at all, in fact, until the spirit went through the door of the last warehouse on the street, and Bruce heard gruff and bawdy voices coming from a group of men gathered round a table with cards.
"That's's much's I know 'bout it, anyway," said a large man with a ruddy face and overgrown mustache. "But it's true, jus' the same."
"When did it happen?" a spindly, narrow-faced man asked eagerly.
"Jus' last night, 'ccordin' to Bill," the ruddy man replied.
"Amazing," whistled a third man, dealing out fresh hands. "I thought he was fuckin' immortal or somethin'. Wouldn't never die."
Bruce stiffened at the mention of death, glancing sidelong at the silent spirit for an answer he knew better than to expect.
"What the hell happens now, without 'im?" wondered the fourth man, with the scar across his throat.
"Fuck if I know, but 's good for us!"
The ruddy man's words were greeted by raucous laughter.
"No more spookin' at every giggle 'n all," cheered the spindly one.
"Too bad there ain't likely to be no funeral," said the dealer. "Glad as I am, seems only right fair to pay 'spects."
"You a crazy bastard," laughed the fourth man.
Bruce wanted to stay and listen - a suspicion was forming which he wanted to confirm or deny, but the spirit was moving away, and he felt obliged to follow it.
Up the stairs they went, into an office which was better furnished than the warehouse floor by far. Within, Salvatore Maroni sat before a polished oak desk, carelessly glancing through correspondence as a lieutenant stood by, either to guard or assist.
"Well, the Devil's finally taken him, sir," he said, marveling at some paper in his hand, the writing on which Bruce could not make out.
"So I've heard," Maroni returned, only half attending. "Any success getting the boys a plea deal?"
"We tried, sir, but the Commissioner's been out, and no one does a damn thing without his approval."
"Pity. Well, if nothing else, we'll make sure to get Falcone's people wound up in something."
"Undoubtedly, sir."
There ended the conversation, and the spirit glided away once more. Bruce followed, turning the scraps of information over in his mind. It did not seem to him that the Maronis were the cause of the death that had transpired, despite their gladness of it. No, a more powerful figure had been struck down, and Bruce could think of but two men in Gotham who could be the deceased.
The warehouse dissolved, and as if to answer the question Bruce posed silently to himself, a room with sterile walls and bright lights suddenly enclosed him, making the spirit almost comically dark in comparison, but Bruce was far from laughter. He recognized, without having ever been in this part of the building, the common area which was furnished with sparse, secure trappings for the calmer inmates of Arkham Asylum. Huddled on one couch, whispering to each other in fervent tones that raised and were shushed by furtive looks towards the guards, were two women and two men, all in orange scrubs.
"Well, it'll be a piece 'a cake to ditch this place now!" the pale blonde woman said gleefully. "An' I bet we ain't nevah gonna have to come back!"
"Harley, shush," scolded the green-skinned, red-haired woman, her eyes cutting towards their supervisors sharper than a knife blade.
"Oops!" Harley clapped both hands over her mouth and giggled. "Sorry."
"I'm going to miss our games, though," the red-haired man sighed. "That old hardass never missed a single riddle."
"You'd think after fifteen years, he'd think of something better to do with his time," the scarred man muttered.
"Are you saying my riddles are a waste?"
"Well, I only let you drop them everywhere because they aren't made of plastic and other chemical abominations," Ivy said. "So yes."
"Nah, people like that rarely let go of their unhealthy coping strategies -- the more ya do it, the more ya can't stop," Harley mused, ignoring the other three. "Really, it's a shame, an' to have those li'l kids involved in it too..."
"Mm," Ivy hummed. "Really, I can't tell who was more fucked-up, the Bat for bringing the birds or the birds for going along with it."
A strangled sound escaped Bruce. These... these supervillains had no right, no goddamn right, to talk about him and his children that way. They had no idea what they were talking about, no idea that Bruce tried to stop them, that he'd done what he had because it was that or let them get killed--
And yet they were right, too. Jason had been killed. In a war he never should have been fighting. Bruce's fault.
"Clearly, those brats were nicer to you," Riddler sniffed. "The first one always insulted me, the second never failed to kick me where I'm sure he'd never like to get kicked, and the last one had the nerve to ask about my 'daddy issues!'"
"But you do have daddy issues," Harley pointed out.
"Well, it wasn't any of his business!"
"Edward, do you want to get medicated?" Ivy snapped. "I thought we were going to bust the fuck out of here since there's no self-righteous, unstable vampire with too many tiny bastards who can drag us back."
"He didn't used to be a vampire," Harvey Dent said quietly. "Always used to be his heart bleedin' out. But I guess sooner or later even the good men run dry."
"You sure seem to know a lot about it," Riddler said, still sulking over his self-evident parental problems.
"Oh, he's too easy to read." Harley waved a hand airily. "Ya fight the darkness long enough, ya forget what light looks like. Soon enough, you're all black 'n twisted too."
"I understand," Bruce said quietly to the Ghost, turning away from his once-friend's pensive eyes. "Spirit, I understand. I will do better, I swear it."
To die was once thing. Bruce had long ago made his peace with an early death, sometimes even wearily yearned for it, though he never spoke the treason aloud. But to have his death celebrated...
"Show me another future," he pleaded. "This is what would become of who I was, but something must change if I do."
Although Bruce had expected no answer, the world shifted, and he found himself breathless and shivering even harder at the foot of the stairs before the GCPD headquarters. Flashing lights and sirens abounded, making a chaos of the scene. EMTs and officers rushed around, pulling shock blankets around some human forms and body bags around others, and smoke rose around the square, though most of the flames were dead.
In the middle of the chaos, Jim Gordon stood, face buried in his hands as though he couldn't bear to look at the thing which lay at his feet.
It was a body. Corpse. Broad, and tall, and still, and covered by a midnight shroud that could not completely dull the glint of wet blood which soaked the torso.
The Ghost moved at last, one cloaked arm raising, a single skeletal finger pointing towards the deceased, as if bidding Bruce to go and pull back the shroud from the face. It was an act he had performed dispassionately many times before, and yet Bruce did not want to draw closer.
"I know who it is," he said. "You've made it obvious enough already."
Still, the Ghost pointed at the shroud.
"It's me," Bruce snapped, taking a step away from the spot, shivers becoming jerky. "I get it, I'm going to die." I don't care.
He could remember the music and light and the bright forms that had enfolded Jason's spirit.
"This is the last thing that would sway me. Your older brothers are far better at their jobs."
The Ghost seemed then to swell, and Bruce stumbled back a step, breath coming short as the darkness blotted out every blue and red flash, silenced every human and mechanical wail. Dozens of apologies, protests, and entreaties rose in his throat but died on his lips, until the utter black receded to show a familiar room with the face of a clock for the window.
Dick sat on the sofa there, head in his hands, but it was not the Dick that Christmas Present had shown to Bruce.
This man had dark, bruised shadows under his eyes, and unkempt stubble across his face. This man's hair was limp and matted, his clothes rumpled, as if he hadn't changed nor bathed in a week. His gaze was vacant, empty, the whites of his eyes bloody from too much crying. If Bruce had not raised the boy for ten years, he could never have recognized the cracked shell of the once bright, bouncing child.
"Dick?"
There was a murmur of movement and then Barbara appeared, her eyes also tearful, and her attitude hesitant and unsure in a way Bruce had never witnessed. If she looked physically well, it was only in comparison to her husband, for her hair was also unkempt and eyes darkly underlined.
Dick did not answer her.
"Dick, love? I... I made dinner."
He very slowly shook his head and rasped, "Not hungry."
"You haven't been hungry for two days. Please, Dick."
"No."
"Dick." Barbara took a deep breath. "He... He wouldn't want--"
"SHUT UP!"
Dick was suddenly on his feet, fists clenched at his sides, eyes blazing with a fury they hadn't held since the name Tony Zucco had lost its grip on his mind.
"Don't tell me - don't fucking tell me - what anyone I've lost would have wanted!"
Barbara gazed up at him, not fearful, but unspeakably sad.
"It doesn't matter anymore! They're fucking DEAD--"
Dick's voice broke. His face twisted up as if to release a shriek. But then an eerie calm settled over him, like Death's own shroud, as he whispered, "They're dead. And I couldn't save them."
He turned away sharply, burying his face in his hands as his shoulders began to shake.
"Dick, sweetheart, it wasn't your fault..."
Bruce's voice died, and he stopped moving after one step, remembering that Dick was deaf to his presence. Barbara silently wheeled closer, tentatively reaching up to set a hand on Dick’s back.
Immediately he turned back, dropping to his knees and beginning to sob in earnest, hiding his face in her lap as he wept, "I'm sorry. Babs, I'm s-so... sorry."
"I know," she whispered, stroking his hair numbly. "I know.”
Bruce watched as the two of them simply cried, his heart growing heavy in his chest. He hated to inflict this pain. Dick shouldn't have to be orphaned twice. Bruce couldn't imagine...
Yet it was something they'd both known from the first, no matter that they never spoke of it save when a teary child would crawl into Bruce's bed citing a nightmare: Bruce would die too soon. It was a miracle that he'd gotten to see Dick graduate and marry and grow into himself. They'd been preparing for loss all along. Dick didn't deserve it, but he'd be ok.
"I can't promise not to die," he whispered, not sure whether he spoke to the Ghost or his sobbing son. "To be more careful, to stop taking risks, but..."
If it was Bruce's life or another's, he could only make one choice. And he might be forced into that situation no matter if he quit Batman altogether.
Darkness enveloped the scene once more, and when light returned, Bruce was in a familiar gilded, gauzy chamber. This time, however, Talia was alone, cross-legged on her bed with her head bowed and face curtained by her hair. Only the pattern of her breathing revealed that she was crying.
Again, Bruce felt an awful weight in his chest, for Talia cried so, so rarely. He still remembered a time when he would do anything to get her to smile again, and when, all attempts failing, he would hold her near and let her sob against his chest until the grief had run its course.
Even knowing she could not feel, he sank down beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, trying to numb his own pain with the knowledge that of all the beloved ones in his life, it would be Talia who could stand the lost the best, in time.
"Why would you not listen?" she whispered.
There came a knocking, and a set of curtains parted to reveal Damian, hardly older than Bruce had observed with the Ghost of Christmas Present, but with a new and terrible dark solemnity behind his eyes... and a sword buckled at his waist.
"Mother?" he called.
Talia lifted her head, revealing how red and blotched were her eyes and face. Damian's neutrality shifted to worry, and when she raised one hand to him he went immediately and took it, allowing him to draw her close against her side.
"Mother, what's wrong?"
She rested her head against his, cradling him as if he might dissolve in her arms.
"I'm so sorry, habibi," she whispered. "Your... your father..."
"He is dead," Damian said quietly, and at last a truly wicked knife slid into Bruce's chest.
For all his excitement and curiosity in the earlier years, all his disappointment when Talia put off the thought of a meeting, Damian now sounded empty as he spoke of the loss.
"Grandfather informed me already."
Talia wept harder before finally pulling back, tracing her son's face with one hand as though trying to find his father in his features.
"I wish you could have known him. I wish you could have known them all."
Damian turned his face to free it. "All I have ever known of my father was that he lost what strength and courage he possessed when you loved him," he said, almost cold. "And all I have known of his so-called sons is that the last one failed to save his life."
Talia's expression twisted to acute agony. A few more tears spilled from her eyes as she shook her head.
"He may have been afraid, but he had a good heart. A good heart that he shared with all of his children." She cupped Damian's face once more. "A heart he shared with you. Ya walad, do not make me grieve twice. Keep that heart."
Damian met her eyes only a moment. Then he dropped his gaze. "It's too hard."
"No," Bruce whispered, watching as the boy finally returned his mother's embrace. "No, this won't happen. This won't happen. I'll do better. I-- I'll put aside my fear, I'll do whatever I have to do to be in his life, I won't let Ra's twist him like this! Damian will know me."
The Ghost began to move, not through total blackness, but instead a heavy mist. Bruce chased it, insistences growing ever louder and more assertive.
"Are you listening to me?" he shouted. "I said I'll make things right, you don't have to show me any more!"
Dark shapes loomed up out of the fog, even taller, some, than the Ghost, and Bruce flinched back from them until he recognized crucifixes, angels, obelisks, and other markers of marble and granite. He realized there was grass under his feet, and that the Ghost was winding a way through a graveyard.
"I GET THE FUCKING MESSAGE!" he hollered, running to take hold of the Ghost's cloak, intending to force it to face him. Instead, he was himself tugged along until they reached an angel bearing the name Jason Peter Todd.
"I thought I was supposed to let go," Bruce said flatly, dropping the Ghost's cloak with a scowl. "Is that not all of your fucking points? That I need to stop being so afraid that it'll happen again?"
The Ghost raised its spectral arm, pointing not to Jason's stone, but just beyond. Bruce spared a mere second to confirm that that memorial bore his name.
"There, I've seen your proof. If I don't get my act together, I will die. I've already told you, that's far from your most compelling evidence, and I've already fucking told you I'm going to do better! Either show me a sign that I'm right, or take me home!"
Still, the Ghost pointed.
"Am I supposed to sign something?" Bruce exploded. "Do you want it in writing? 'I, Bruce Wayne, do swear to stop living in the past and dreading the future and being so fucking afraid?'"
The Ghost kept pointing, unwavering.
Bruce snarled and wheeled around, following the finger's line past his own headstone, to another, very near.
His rage was suspended, overtaken by a spreading numb uncertainty, accompanied by a dreading twist of his stomach. He stepped closer to the stone, crouching to read closely in the dark.
Ice spread through him. For the stone belonged to Timothy Drake.
"No," he whispered, mind filling with blood. "No. No, this can't be. It can't... No. No! How-- Tim can't-- How could this happen?"
He looked back at the Ghost, which still pointed to the stone. The stone which refused to spell another name, no matter how Bruce shook his head and stared, trying to find some detail to prove this was not his Timothy Drake.
"Tim can't be dead!" he shouted.
It was Bruce, Bruce was dead, the stone was before him. His body had lain at Gordon's feet, his passing had been celebrated by the scum and scourge of the city and mourned by his family, not Tim!
And yet...
Bruce felt vomit rise in his throat as tiny inconsistencies assaulted him, pelting like hail against his mind.
Giggles. Those little kids involved. Couldn't save them. The last one failed.
Tim all alone, crying in a kitchen which would never hold a family. Tim following Bruce, night after night, no matter where or how he led.
"No."
The word came out a broken sob. Bruce stood, backing away from the stone, legs trembling beneath the weight of his horror.
"No, I-- I'll stop this. There has to be a way to stop this."
He looked to the Ghost in supplication.
"What am I missing?" he pleaded. "How do I stop this from happening?"
The Ghost's arm began to tremble, as if it felt Bruce's wild pain.
"There has to be a way!" Bruce cried. "Tell me I can save him! Tell me if I change, so will this! TELL ME!"
But the Ghost only shuddered.
Bruce threw himself at it, grabbing the wrist as if to break it, but it would not move. He struck at it, wrenched at it, but the Ghost seemed insensible of him, pointing ever at the stone until Bruce could only stagger back, tears falling as he shook his head in fervent denial.
"I'll do anything," he choked. "Everything. I'll let go of my fear, I'll let go of the past, I-- I'll show him a better way! I'll set a better -- I'll be a better example, I'll teach him how much his life is worth, I'll love and protect him like he's my own s-son, please, tell me it's not too late to save him!"
He fell to his knees and reached out, clutching at the Ghost's cloak, only to blink and see his own bedclothes before him.
Notes:
Praying I carried this off the way I meant to, Lord its almost three and I thought id be done by 2 😅
Chapter 5: Stave V - The End of It
Notes:
This chapter for Christmas Countdown Playlist 2023 Day 12: Christmas Morning
Guys I wrote it in like one fucking night go me
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
His bedclothes... His bedclothes were before him, his room surrounded him. He was in his own home once more, and light shone through the edges of the curtains.
Bruce started, tears still drying on his face, and looked around, grabbing out at the objects around him to reassure himself they were real.
"I'll love him," he whispered again, voice hoarse. "I'll love them all, I swear it. I won't be afraid. Don't... don't let me be too late."
He couldn't be. He couldn't. Wasn't.
He jerkily got to his feet and yanked open his door, striding down the hall and shouting for Alfred.
The man appeared in moments, wrapped in his own dressing gown and looking quite shocked at the sight of Bruce.
"Alfred, what day is it?" Bruce gasped.
"It's Christmas morning, sir. Master Bruce, are you quite--"
"Tim, where is Tim?" was the next breathless query.
Alfred’s eyebrows rose, and he must have thought Bruce truly mad then, but he still answered, "Master Tim went home last night, to be with his family on the holiday."
"They won't come," Bruce choked, with a shake of his head.
"Won't--"
"Oh, Tim..."
Bruce turned away and rushed down the hall, making for the front door and pausing only long enough to stick his feet into boots and arms into a coat. It was in that moment that Alfred caught up to him and demanded, "What the devil--"
"I was wrong," Bruce whispered, turning haunted eyes to his foster father and shaking his head. "I was so wrong, I see it now."
Overcome, he stepped forward and pulled the old man into an embrace.
"I'm so sorry."
Then he turned and plunged out into the frosty morning, leaving Alfred in shock on the stoop.
Bruce forged through the snow with a desperation equal to that which had once brought him across a sandy desert, all the while seeing a name carved in stone and eyes broken in sorrow.
At last he reached the door of Drake Manor and pounded on it, terror rising in his throat and threatening to choke him with every moment his knocks went unanswered.
Finally, finally, just as he was about to break down the door, it opened to reveal a bleary-eyed, sleep-rumpled teenager in basketball shorts and a band shirt.
"Bru--"
Bruce fell to his knees with the force of his relief, and swept the boy into his arms before he could even finish his name, clutching the child so tight it could've been thought he'd already lost him, and just gotten him back. He stroked his hand through the soft dark hair which stood up in all directions, and looked up at the heavens as though to thank them for the chance to preserve the young, dear life.
"Uh, Bruce, are you ok? What's going on?"
Tim wriggled, unaccustomed to such affection, and with incredible reluctance, Bruce let him go, reaching out one more time to cup the cheek that was not pale and sunken in death.
"I owe you an apology, Tim," he said, voice thick, as he met those wide, worried blue eyes. "So many apologies."
Tim started to shake his head, but Bruce repeated himself.
"I'm so sorry, Tim, for how I've treated you. I'm sorry I've been cold, been distant, I am so sorry, Tim, for ever showing you to lose yourself in pain and for trying for so long to send you away."
Tim's breath caught, eyes going wider still.
"No more," Bruce vowed. "I promise you, Tim, I will never act that way again. I pushed you away because... because I was so afraid of caring again, so afraid that I'd lose you, but it was selfish of me, and I won't hold back anymore.
"Tim, you... You're like a son to me, Tim. I know that now. And I will do everything in my power to let you know it too, that I will love you and be here for you for the rest of my life. I promise, Tim."
Blue eyes filled with tears, and Tim gaped at Bruce, shaking his head and whispering, "This is a dream."
"It's not a dream. This is real, Tim. It's so real."
The boy swiped at his eyes, still shaking his head in awed denial.
"But you can't-- I'm not-- I mean-- I'm just..."
"You are not just anything, Tim," Bruce murmured. "You are worth so much. So much, and I promise, someday you will see that."
Tim bit his lip to muffle a quiet keen.
"My own parents aren't even coming back," he whispered. "If they can't want me--"
"They're fools."
Bruce reached out, and this time Tim fell against him, wrapping his arms around Bruce's neck and letting Bruce hold him close.
"You are so precious, Tim," he murmured. "My son. My son."
Tim was brought home, to Wayne Manor - where he and Bruce were fed a wondeful Christmas breakfast by a bewildered but not displeased Alfred Pennyworth. For the rest of the day, the three of them ran about, getting decorations out of attics and garages and closets, setting up the place as beautifully as they could with such short notice that cheer was to be awakened.
The tree had to be got from the woods behind the house, but oh! what a time of picking it they had! Bruce rushed in that way and Tim in this, each pointing to a different evergreen, and Alfred had to look at both and remind them how short the ceiling of the den was by comparison. At last, however, all three settled on an excellent pine, which was cut down respectfully and garnished in such radiant display it could hardly have begrudged being uprooted from the very earth.
Cookies were made and decked and eaten, carols were sung, and merriness was made in full until evening drew near, and then the three all piled into a car which Alfred drove to the clocktower in the city.
What surprise and delight greeted them under its peak! Dick stared a full five minutes before he could get his words in order to ask what sort of hallucinogen had he inhaled, for surely that could not be his father there, beaming so.
"Oh, chum."
Bruce strode forward, wrapping his firstborn in his arms and blessing the heavens again to see the health in his body and light in his eyes.
"I was such a fool, Dick," he whispered as he at last pulled back, brushing dark waves out of those wide eyes. "Can you ever forgive me for it?"
Forgiven! Indeed, the foolishness was entirely forgot. Barbara welcomed him and the others in warmly, once her own shock had been got over, and went and brought eggnog for the adults and hot chocolate for Tim, as well as a supply of cookies for all. Jim Gordon shook his head in amazement, but said that he was glad, so very glad, to see them.
Dinner was devoured and games were played, Tim beating even Dick at the driving game, and prompting Gordon to ask what bonehead had given the boy a license. Barbara won at cards, but Alfred gave her a rather good go, failing at the end only because Dick could not hide his own excitement at the man's hand. Charades were even livelier than before, and Bruce smiled to himself as he watched Dick go through all the poses and motions as he'd seen with the Spirit before Tim at last guessed Batman.
Finally the night ended with Bruce, Tim, and Alfred all back at the manor, playing that game with the map and wooden soldiers, until Tim fell asleep on Bruce's shoulder and was carried up to bed.
The next morning, while Tim was still sleeping off the excitement of his busiest Christmas in years, Bruce scrolled down, down, down in his phone to a contact he had not dared to reach out to for far too long of a time.
A voice like a melody greeted him from far away, and Bruce swallowed his nervousness.
"Talia," he said breathlessly. "I... I'm sorry. I'm so... You were right. You were right all along. I was too afraid, but I won't be anymore. I know you need time, and... and we don't have to-- I mean, I... Whatever you want, I'll respect. But if you're willing to give me a second chance, I want to meet Damian. And I... I'd be very glad to see you again."
Notes:
He does meet Damian, and sees Talia again. As soon as they are able to flee from the League, they come to Gotham, and Bruce greets them so changed and loving and unafraid that they stay for a very, very long time indeed. Tim is not long after adopted owing to his parents' legal negligence, and he and Damian both sort out the sudden loss of their only/youngest statuses with much squabbling, but minimal bloodshed.
Bruce never interacts with the Spirits again, and nevermore sees Jason's ghost. But he cherishes that night and its lessons, and all of Gotham agreed that they have never seen a man more kind and full of love for his fellows than Bruce Wayne, nor a being so merciful and devoted to the betterment of the human race than the Batman.
And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, every one!
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