Fic - Ghosts (DCU - Clark/Bruce)
This idea grew out of a plot bunny (provided by mithen) that bit me and wouldn't let go. Luckily for me, it also happens to meet the requirements for bradygirl_12's 2007 DCU Fic/Art Halloween Challenge! ^_^
Title: Ghosts
Author: Saavikam
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce (implied)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 975
Summary: Bruce tries to find a way to deal with the ghosts that haunt him when a fire destroys a major Gotham landmark. He isn't so successful.
Disclaimer: DC Comics and WB owns it all. I own nothing and am making no money from this. Darnit.
Ghosts
The fire destroyed everything. Completely uncontrollable, the blaze consumed every room, the beds and padding within, doors, walls, ceilings, floors, even the barred windows and 'restraints' were melted. In the end, nothing was left except for the outer brick walls... and the ghosts.
Bruce could hear them wailing every time he set foot on the property, the terrified screams of the victims, left shut in their rooms when the staff ran, the fire spreading too fast to allow them time to save even one. He heard the screams every time. Day, night, it didn't matter. The agonized cries rose out of what was left of the walls and begged him for mercy, begged him for help. Even the insane laughter of one particularly psychotic patient begged in utter horror to be saved from the searing inferno that had torn through Arkham Asylum that night.
What was worse, Bruce welcomed them.
He didn't know if the fire was his fault, didn't care to find out, even at Alfred and Clark's urging. In the end, it didn't matter. He was there the night the fire started in the dark building, the filth of the place only adding fuel to the blaze as he'd gone from trying to prevent a mass break out to trying to evacuate even the worst of the patients before the fire could reach them.
That was all that truly mattered. He was there. He had put most of these people away, and he couldn't get them back out before it was too late.
After a while, part of him began to wonder whether he had even really tried. And that was when he began frequenting the site of the burned out asylum. That was when he let the ghosts come to him.
* * * * *
Six months to the day, on a beautifully sunlit October afternoon, Bruce Wayne stood in front of the main building of the newly constructed Gotham Gardens and Community Center, smiling that vapid playboy billionaire smile he'd cultivated over the years. Camera flashes blinded him as he cut the ridiculous red ribbon with those damned oversize scissors they always made him use, and he graciously pumped the hands of the mayor and his underlings while the assembled crowd of press and interested parties applauded the grand opening of the center.
Truly a miraculous transformation, they had called it, that what was once a decrepit cesspool of depravity and outright insanity, neglect, abuse, and even torture, if the rumors were to be believed, had been so completely changed. And it was only through the combination of a horrific - though some insisted it was really merciful both to the patients and the city of Gotham - fire and the unlimited generosity and good will of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist extraordinaire, that this miracle had been accomplished at all.
He wasn't so sure he believed any of that, but playing the role of wealthy city benefactor came easily to Bruce, his rehearsed responses slipping off of his tongue as he spoke to members of the press during the tour of the facilities. Really, he could have done it in his sleep if he'd had to. Which was a good thing, because his mind was several light years away from donations and community programs and beautifying the city. Even if those were on the top of his list of priorities for Gotham, right after curbing the rampant crime that had plagued the city relentlessly since it's founding nearly three hundred years ago.
Today, it was the ghosts that spoke to him as he walked with the tour. The tortured cries pled with him as he walked the bright, sunny hallways that occupied the same space that dimly lit, rat infested corridors once had. Blistering hands stretched through the barred doors of padded cells into imaginary flames as he passed by, their burned flesh reaching for the only salvation they might have had.
In the meandering gardens, the choking black smoke of the blaze billowed before Bruce's eyes, making them water with the stinging stench of charred flesh, blocking out the bright colors of fall foliage and the warm scent of autumn flowers. Fragrant boxwoods became the winding maze of fallen brick and cinder-block, impeding even his own escape from the inferno.
It wasn't until he had reached the outer edge of the gardens that the wailing screams began to lessen, the smell of burning bodies growing more faint, and he found himself alone as the rest of the tour moved on toward the auxiliary buildings, with their gymnasiums and pools and other athletic and artistic facilities that had been bought with his money.
“It's beautiful, Bruce. You should be really proud,” a not entirely unexpected voice said from behind him, full of warmth and caring.
Turning, he found his partner and friend, Clark Kent, standing with his hands shoved into the pockets of his inexpensive brown tweed suit, looking every bit the quintessential reporter he was.
“No, it's not,” Bruce replied simply.
Clark looked at him questioningly, his brow furrowed in concern. “Oh?”
“It's not beautiful, and it won't ever be.”
“Why not?” his friend said carefully.
“Because they're still here, Clark. They're all still here. It's still here.”
With a patient sigh, the taller man laid a comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder, clasping gently, firmly. “It won't always be. Not everyone sees what you see in this place, Bruce.”
“It doesn't matter what they see. I see it. I hear it. I smell it.” A chill ran over him as a cloud briefly blocked the sun from view, its shadow passing quickly. In the distance, he heard the anguished cry of a laughing maniac, somehow managing even now to get the last laugh, and he shivered involuntarily. “Arkham will always be here. And so will they.”
From somewhere far away, teasing psychotic laughter continued to haunt him.
* * * * *
Title: Ghosts
Author: Saavikam
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Clark/Bruce (implied)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 975
Summary: Bruce tries to find a way to deal with the ghosts that haunt him when a fire destroys a major Gotham landmark. He isn't so successful.
Disclaimer: DC Comics and WB owns it all. I own nothing and am making no money from this. Darnit.
Ghosts
The fire destroyed everything. Completely uncontrollable, the blaze consumed every room, the beds and padding within, doors, walls, ceilings, floors, even the barred windows and 'restraints' were melted. In the end, nothing was left except for the outer brick walls... and the ghosts.
Bruce could hear them wailing every time he set foot on the property, the terrified screams of the victims, left shut in their rooms when the staff ran, the fire spreading too fast to allow them time to save even one. He heard the screams every time. Day, night, it didn't matter. The agonized cries rose out of what was left of the walls and begged him for mercy, begged him for help. Even the insane laughter of one particularly psychotic patient begged in utter horror to be saved from the searing inferno that had torn through Arkham Asylum that night.
What was worse, Bruce welcomed them.
He didn't know if the fire was his fault, didn't care to find out, even at Alfred and Clark's urging. In the end, it didn't matter. He was there the night the fire started in the dark building, the filth of the place only adding fuel to the blaze as he'd gone from trying to prevent a mass break out to trying to evacuate even the worst of the patients before the fire could reach them.
That was all that truly mattered. He was there. He had put most of these people away, and he couldn't get them back out before it was too late.
After a while, part of him began to wonder whether he had even really tried. And that was when he began frequenting the site of the burned out asylum. That was when he let the ghosts come to him.
* * * * *
Six months to the day, on a beautifully sunlit October afternoon, Bruce Wayne stood in front of the main building of the newly constructed Gotham Gardens and Community Center, smiling that vapid playboy billionaire smile he'd cultivated over the years. Camera flashes blinded him as he cut the ridiculous red ribbon with those damned oversize scissors they always made him use, and he graciously pumped the hands of the mayor and his underlings while the assembled crowd of press and interested parties applauded the grand opening of the center.
Truly a miraculous transformation, they had called it, that what was once a decrepit cesspool of depravity and outright insanity, neglect, abuse, and even torture, if the rumors were to be believed, had been so completely changed. And it was only through the combination of a horrific - though some insisted it was really merciful both to the patients and the city of Gotham - fire and the unlimited generosity and good will of Bruce Wayne, philanthropist extraordinaire, that this miracle had been accomplished at all.
He wasn't so sure he believed any of that, but playing the role of wealthy city benefactor came easily to Bruce, his rehearsed responses slipping off of his tongue as he spoke to members of the press during the tour of the facilities. Really, he could have done it in his sleep if he'd had to. Which was a good thing, because his mind was several light years away from donations and community programs and beautifying the city. Even if those were on the top of his list of priorities for Gotham, right after curbing the rampant crime that had plagued the city relentlessly since it's founding nearly three hundred years ago.
Today, it was the ghosts that spoke to him as he walked with the tour. The tortured cries pled with him as he walked the bright, sunny hallways that occupied the same space that dimly lit, rat infested corridors once had. Blistering hands stretched through the barred doors of padded cells into imaginary flames as he passed by, their burned flesh reaching for the only salvation they might have had.
In the meandering gardens, the choking black smoke of the blaze billowed before Bruce's eyes, making them water with the stinging stench of charred flesh, blocking out the bright colors of fall foliage and the warm scent of autumn flowers. Fragrant boxwoods became the winding maze of fallen brick and cinder-block, impeding even his own escape from the inferno.
It wasn't until he had reached the outer edge of the gardens that the wailing screams began to lessen, the smell of burning bodies growing more faint, and he found himself alone as the rest of the tour moved on toward the auxiliary buildings, with their gymnasiums and pools and other athletic and artistic facilities that had been bought with his money.
“It's beautiful, Bruce. You should be really proud,” a not entirely unexpected voice said from behind him, full of warmth and caring.
Turning, he found his partner and friend, Clark Kent, standing with his hands shoved into the pockets of his inexpensive brown tweed suit, looking every bit the quintessential reporter he was.
“No, it's not,” Bruce replied simply.
Clark looked at him questioningly, his brow furrowed in concern. “Oh?”
“It's not beautiful, and it won't ever be.”
“Why not?” his friend said carefully.
“Because they're still here, Clark. They're all still here. It's still here.”
With a patient sigh, the taller man laid a comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder, clasping gently, firmly. “It won't always be. Not everyone sees what you see in this place, Bruce.”
“It doesn't matter what they see. I see it. I hear it. I smell it.” A chill ran over him as a cloud briefly blocked the sun from view, its shadow passing quickly. In the distance, he heard the anguished cry of a laughing maniac, somehow managing even now to get the last laugh, and he shivered involuntarily. “Arkham will always be here. And so will they.”
From somewhere far away, teasing psychotic laughter continued to haunt him.
* * * * *