christmas amnesty - batman fic
this didn't quite go to plan, it's beautiful and angsty but it's not quite right
the idea is that child bruce is haunted by the demon who appears to him as a woman in a wedding gown
it was going to go on and explain why but although it has potential I'm desperately unhappy with it - which often means you'll all love it to pieces
it's a wonderful fragment but i didn't want to write a fragment dagnammit!
Notes: This was discussed with the amazing Te in regards to the Batman: Black and White chapter - The Lesson
She comes to him in dreams, flickers of frost that form around the edges of the not quite colour landscape, it is as if the picture is sepia but with details painted in lurid delirious technicolour. Her hands are cold when she cups his face, her own face is obscured by the veil she wears. The frost is black - it crackles and is cold, so cold that Bruce shivers in his sleep, burrowing deeper into the blankets.
She is stained, darker patches on the dark fabric and the thwump thwump of mammalian flight when she moves. “My beautiful boy,” she says and strokes his head and her hand is three long curved claws, the lace of her dark shawl falling like wings from her wrists, “my beautiful, beautiful boy.”
He shivers, his teeth chattering as he reaches further towards her and she buries his small face into the curve of her icy neck, wrapping that dark brown shawl around him. “You'll never be alone again.” She smells of pennies and mothballs and old old dust, and like home. Bruce isn't scared of her, not for weeks now, not since Chill was arrested. He is never alone when she is there, but instead he is cold- so very cold.
Alfred goes into the room, seeing the boy caught in a foetal position, wearing thick pyjamas and robe with blankets piled high above him, and builds up the fire. Ever since, Alfred swallows the words down with the grief, Bruce has been so cold, he's burning hot, feverish, to the touch but shivers and goes down to the cave.
Bruce will no longer have his friends in the manor, Tommy Elliott with his watching eyes and steady hands, Lex Luthor who looks like an alien under his uncomfortable looking hats, all large eyes and skin, like one of those progeria victims in Gotham Mercy that Martha always had such time for. And how Lex had gotten so angry, “I hate that this happens,” he said, “and I hate that this happened to you.” But Bruce won't have them near.
There is just this shivering, tiny little lump in the centre of the bed who just can't seem to get warm.
Alfred has heard that the ineffectual GCPD have arrested someone for the murder, some local thug called Chill, but there's nothing they can do, he thinks, to assuage the cold that has settled into that tiny body, that lies there curled up into himself under the blankets. “Alfred?” Bruce asks quietly, his voice so small in the darkness of the room. He moved from his own bedroom to one of the smaller guest rooms at Alfred's suggestion, because it would be easier to keep it warm.
“Yes, master Bruce.” Alfred asks, but the boy is sleeping again, making quiet snuffling sounds that make it sound like he's saying “yes.” Outside the window a bat flaps it's way back to the raised stones that lead to their subterranean home. It's nearly dawn, Alfred thinks, if only he could sleep.
“What are you?” the boy asks in his dream, the figure smiles under the dirty filthy veil. She doesn't answer at first, she just turns and there is that haunting thwump thwump sound of her moving, the smell of her, pennies and dust and camphor, and the frost of her breath moistening the front of her veil.
“I'm the one who loves you.” She says and her voice is even. “I am the one who loves Gotham.” She swoops in, the lace falling about feet he thinks might not be there and she is cold, so cold, “I'm the one who will show you how to save her, to find those who hurt you, my beloved boy.”
“I don't have anything to give in exchange.” He knows that, no one gives anything for nothing, people just take and take and take.
He can hear the smile in her voice when she tilts her head and tells him, “oh my dear boy,” the air around him warms so slowly and his breath makes little puffs of steam as he walks towards her. If he's cold then she's there, he's not alone. “I don't want to make a bargain,” she sounds like she might laugh. “I'm going to show you how.”
In the centre of the bed the boy shuffles, then eases out, unfolding himself from a tight ball into the swastika position he used to sleep in, one arm up, one down, and legs akimbo to take up as much of the bed as he possibly can. In his sleep he throws the covers back, and makes a breathy pant of a noise, kicking his feet free of the blanket. For the first time since a set of pearls fell into the gutter the boy sleeps peacefully and something around Alfred's heart eases, some fantastical hand that he had not realised clutched his heart in it's fist, lets go. With a smile he goes to the door, checks the boy again, then goes downstairs to put the coffee on, Bruce will waken soon and he will want some breakfast.
the idea is that child bruce is haunted by the demon who appears to him as a woman in a wedding gown
it was going to go on and explain why but although it has potential I'm desperately unhappy with it - which often means you'll all love it to pieces
it's a wonderful fragment but i didn't want to write a fragment dagnammit!
Notes: This was discussed with the amazing Te in regards to the Batman: Black and White chapter - The Lesson
She comes to him in dreams, flickers of frost that form around the edges of the not quite colour landscape, it is as if the picture is sepia but with details painted in lurid delirious technicolour. Her hands are cold when she cups his face, her own face is obscured by the veil she wears. The frost is black - it crackles and is cold, so cold that Bruce shivers in his sleep, burrowing deeper into the blankets.
She is stained, darker patches on the dark fabric and the thwump thwump of mammalian flight when she moves. “My beautiful boy,” she says and strokes his head and her hand is three long curved claws, the lace of her dark shawl falling like wings from her wrists, “my beautiful, beautiful boy.”
He shivers, his teeth chattering as he reaches further towards her and she buries his small face into the curve of her icy neck, wrapping that dark brown shawl around him. “You'll never be alone again.” She smells of pennies and mothballs and old old dust, and like home. Bruce isn't scared of her, not for weeks now, not since Chill was arrested. He is never alone when she is there, but instead he is cold- so very cold.
Alfred goes into the room, seeing the boy caught in a foetal position, wearing thick pyjamas and robe with blankets piled high above him, and builds up the fire. Ever since, Alfred swallows the words down with the grief, Bruce has been so cold, he's burning hot, feverish, to the touch but shivers and goes down to the cave.
Bruce will no longer have his friends in the manor, Tommy Elliott with his watching eyes and steady hands, Lex Luthor who looks like an alien under his uncomfortable looking hats, all large eyes and skin, like one of those progeria victims in Gotham Mercy that Martha always had such time for. And how Lex had gotten so angry, “I hate that this happens,” he said, “and I hate that this happened to you.” But Bruce won't have them near.
There is just this shivering, tiny little lump in the centre of the bed who just can't seem to get warm.
Alfred has heard that the ineffectual GCPD have arrested someone for the murder, some local thug called Chill, but there's nothing they can do, he thinks, to assuage the cold that has settled into that tiny body, that lies there curled up into himself under the blankets. “Alfred?” Bruce asks quietly, his voice so small in the darkness of the room. He moved from his own bedroom to one of the smaller guest rooms at Alfred's suggestion, because it would be easier to keep it warm.
“Yes, master Bruce.” Alfred asks, but the boy is sleeping again, making quiet snuffling sounds that make it sound like he's saying “yes.” Outside the window a bat flaps it's way back to the raised stones that lead to their subterranean home. It's nearly dawn, Alfred thinks, if only he could sleep.
“What are you?” the boy asks in his dream, the figure smiles under the dirty filthy veil. She doesn't answer at first, she just turns and there is that haunting thwump thwump sound of her moving, the smell of her, pennies and dust and camphor, and the frost of her breath moistening the front of her veil.
“I'm the one who loves you.” She says and her voice is even. “I am the one who loves Gotham.” She swoops in, the lace falling about feet he thinks might not be there and she is cold, so cold, “I'm the one who will show you how to save her, to find those who hurt you, my beloved boy.”
“I don't have anything to give in exchange.” He knows that, no one gives anything for nothing, people just take and take and take.
He can hear the smile in her voice when she tilts her head and tells him, “oh my dear boy,” the air around him warms so slowly and his breath makes little puffs of steam as he walks towards her. If he's cold then she's there, he's not alone. “I don't want to make a bargain,” she sounds like she might laugh. “I'm going to show you how.”
In the centre of the bed the boy shuffles, then eases out, unfolding himself from a tight ball into the swastika position he used to sleep in, one arm up, one down, and legs akimbo to take up as much of the bed as he possibly can. In his sleep he throws the covers back, and makes a breathy pant of a noise, kicking his feet free of the blanket. For the first time since a set of pearls fell into the gutter the boy sleeps peacefully and something around Alfred's heart eases, some fantastical hand that he had not realised clutched his heart in it's fist, lets go. With a smile he goes to the door, checks the boy again, then goes downstairs to put the coffee on, Bruce will waken soon and he will want some breakfast.