Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-10-10 16:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, door: dc comics |
Who: Bruce Wayne
What: Wee narrative.
Where: Wayne Enterprises.
When: Now-ish.
Warnings/Rating: A little foreshadowing.
It was the first of his afternoon meetings, and Bruce only managed to make it through half an hour before having to excuse himself.
He didn't leave the boardroom and make a beeline for the bathroom because of Selina's note, though it might have angered him, or disappointed him, or even saddened him (no one told him anything, and he was always the last to know) if he'd possessed the energy for such things. His sleep had declined ever since the night Crane had plunged that syringe into his arm, and now he rarely slept at all, save for accidental naps, as he no longer wished to face the nightmares which plagued him every time he closed his eyes. There was no time for that either, for sleep, not when Jason's well-being and perhaps even his life hung in the balance, along with his own-- and, by extension, Luke's. The boy remained oblivious to his own ailment, and as far as Bruce could tell, unusual tiredness was the only side effect he currently felt. For him, it was more like exhaustion, and he had just begun to feel all the injuries he'd accumulated over the years, the pain he'd buried deep, left behind and moved past. But all that was tolerable. No one suspected a thing, because Bruce ensured they saw a man who was no different than he had always been. He was, as always, an excellent liar when the need arose.
No, the note was not the cause of his departure. He read it over once before tearing it to shreds between his fingers and letting them fall to the floor. It was what happened a few moments later, a sudden stab of pain in his temple which caused an explosion of color behind his eyes, followed by a wave of nausea, that had him rise out of his seat and mumble an excuse before bolting for safety and solitude.
Bruce barely had enough time to lock the door behind him, not wanting to be disturbed, and was forced to use the sink as his stomach heaved, emptying its contents into the cool white porcelain before him, as he gripped the sides hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Too soon, this was too soon-- he was only halfway finished with his antidote, and Jason's still needed to be perfected, and even Ivy and her claims of an antidote of her own would not be ready for days yet, if he trusted her enough to accept whatever she concocted. He needed more time, and he'd been so sure he had enough of it... at least, he'd told himself as much.
He turned on the tap and let the water run once he was done, letting the cool liquid run over his fingers and splashing some into his mouth to rid himself of the taste. He looked up, to see his appearance in the mirror--
And saw his parents standing over his shoulder instead.
His stomach lurched in protest as he spun around to face the them, those who should have been long since dead yet looked just as he remembered them on that fateful night; his father, in his best tuxedo, and his mother, hair beautifully coiffed and hair immaculate. The only difference was the paleness of their skin, almost translucent, like something which had been buried and away from the light for a long, long time.
"Bruce." His mother's voice tinkled like a delicate melody, as though it could shatter at any moment, and there was a cold, clammy sort of longing to it, which made a chill run down his spine even as he stared, transfixed. "I've missed you so much, sweetheart, my little boy... we both have... come here, please." She reached for him, and Bruce flinched back, the gesture possessing a hunger which struck a chord with the part of him that had been, and always would be, a scared little boy in an alley. "No," he whispered, and he tried to step back, but a sudden pain in his leg caused him to stumble and fall, narrowly missing a collision with the sink. His mother's eyes narrowed, more angry than hurt, and she moved forward, towards him, followed closely by his father.
His father. Bruce tore his gaze away from his mother to look at him, and he saw no warmth, none of the love he associated with his parents. Cold, they were both so cold. "You'll hurt your mother's feelings, Bruce," his father told him, and the disappointment in his unnatural tone cut like a knife. "How can you treat us this way, after you let us die? We love you so much, Bruce. We died to give you life, and all we ask is a touch... a hug... don't be afraid." It became a repetition, those three words, taken up by his mother was well; don't be afraid. Don't be afraid.
"You'll be with us soon," his father added, and they were both reaching for him, hungry, wanting, and Bruce tried to move away but his back met the wall and there was nowhere for him to go, nowhere to run, and while a part of his mind knew none of this was real the scared boy in him was loud, impossibly so, and it was very much afraid of what would happen if his parents touched him. "Father... Mother... no, please, don't," he whimpered, shaking his head, but they came closer still, telling him how much they loved him, how much they missed him, and it was okay, it would all be okay, soon they'd be together again. Soon.
Just as their dead fingers brushed against his clothes, a gunshot rang out. It was impossibly loud in the bathroom, and his mother screamed, and Bruce covered his hands with his ears and fell sideways, feeling as though his eardrums had exploded and blood would be coating his fingers at any moment. There was another gunshot, this one louder still, and the screaming stopped, and he caught a glimpse of his parents' bodies-- no longer standing, but sprawled over each other in a bloodied, crumpled heap, and the bathroom was no longer a bathroom, but an alley, and the bad man who'd killed his parents was going to kill him too. He squeezed his eyes shut and begged, pleaded, shouted, but fear took his voice, and then--
"Bruce?"
A voice cut through the chaos, one belonging to the world of the living, to reality, and it swept away all else, leaving the bathroom silent and still. Slowly, Bruce opened his eyes, and he lowered his hands, and he saw that all was as it should be.
"Bruce?" The voice was more insistent this time, accompanied by the distinctive sound of a doorknob being shaken, and after a few moments to collect himself Bruce managed to struggle to his feet, making his way over to the door and unlocking it.
The man who'd spoken was one of the Board members, old enough to have known his father personally, and his eyes widened as he took in Bruce's shaky appearance. "Dear god, what happened? Are you alright? I heard shouting," the man insisted, and Bruce shook his head as he moved out of the bathroom and into the hallway, allowing the other man to assist by taking hold of one elbow.
"I'm fine. Just not feeling very well, that's all. I think-- I think I might go home, get some rest. Reschedule my meetings, and apologize for me, will you?" Bruce knew there were some who would be irritated, even angry, but he couldn't go back into that boardroom and sit through meeting after meeting. He just couldn't do it. The man regarded him for a long moment before nodding, releasing hold of his elbow. "Of course, Bruce. You don't look well. They'll understand. Go home, tell that butler of yours to take care of you, and come back once you're better."
Bruce managed a small smile of relief, and waited until the man had left to pass on his news before leaning heavily against the wall and letting out a long, unsteady breath. Hallucinations were to be expected, but still, it had taken him off guard, and he needed... he needed to work on the antidote. Needed to ensure that Luke would not experience any of this before it could be fixed.
There was no time to rest. If the madness was beginning for him, then Jason would not be far behind, Bruce thought, and as he made his way out of the building, the whispers of the dead followed at his heels.