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buggeryYeah, so, this idea had been kicking round my head lately, and this morning I decided to see whether I could get it out in coherent fashion. No doubt because I *ought* to be working on my two Secret Santa assignments, this one flowed. I had the first draft done in less than forty-five minutes. It took me longer to find a title.
Anyway, a Gotham story. Notes follow.
From Childhood's Hour
He knows something is wrong as soon as he wakes.
It's not merely that he's awake when the sun is high in the sky, less than an hour from noon to judge by the angle of the light falling in his windows. Something has unsettled him.
He stays in bed a moment, but can't identify the source of the feeling.
Rising, he goes to the bathroom, splashes water on his face, passes water in the commode. His reflection in the mirror looks... off. He can't put his finger on what's odd about his countenance; he wants to say he looks haunted, but that's a familiar expression which is entirely absent today.
He puts off showering and shaving in favour of pulling on pyjama pants, leather slippers and a robe, and heading downstairs. The hallways echo oddly, as if the house is more empty than usual, but he doesn't linger to examine that impression. There's a sensation of urgency, a feeling he's forgotten something important.
Even his gait is off, as though he'd woken missing a limb and hadn't yet found a new equilibrium.
The bats take wing as he descends the stairs, shrieking as if at a stranger's intrusion into their home.
No emergencies have triggered the situation alarms in the computer system; Gotham's day has been quiet, thus far at least. One screen blinks balefully on the bank of monitors: a recorded message. He sits, the chair feeling uncomfortably unfamiliar, and plays it back.
It's from Tim. He can see Robin's new lair in the background, and Tim is in full uniform, his mask in place, his gauntleted hands steepled above his lap, his cape closed around him.
"We need to talk," the recorded image says, and moves one hand out of frame; the screen goes blank.
Tim has always been able to summon a commanding, foreboding voice, with a certain tone that, even when he had worn the cape and cowl, Dick had at best only ever been able to imitate. There's a new *depth* to that tone, now.
We need to talk, Tim had said, but it isn't true. They don't need to *talk* at all.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred queries from the top of the stairs. It's unusual for him to be up at this time of day, and Alfred's surprise is evident.
Alfred rarely hides his emotions in a way that would fool anyone who knows the man. The prospect of his elation, and subsequent horror, at learning what has happened... "I'm up, Alfred. I'll take brunch in the study." He stands. The Batman will be going out tonight, and for the foreseeable future, but the Batman no longer comprises the only life he can envision for his future. "And would you call and see whether Lucius Fox can meet with me this afternoon?"
Alfred's reaction is mainly more surprise and curiosity, but there's a proud pleasure that makes him look away before Alfred has even turned to carry out his wishes.
He settles his robe more firmly about his shoulders after he hears the door shut, cinches it more firmly closed, and looks around the Cave. He takes in the vehicles sitting sleek and ready in their bays, the exercise mats and weights and gymnastics equipment, the gleaming arrays of machines used for criminological analysis, the accessways leading to trophy storage and data storage.
The long pause changes nothing. The cavernous space is quiet now, even the bats having settled down once more. No voice speaks. There is no presence here save his own.
He stares for another moment at the case that holds Jason's costume, but he's thinking of Tim.
He's long hoped that Tim would one day serve as his successor. He's wished, more and more these last few years, to be free of the Bat, of the long shadow that has darkened his life since he was a boy, even before he ceased to *be* a boy in anything but outward appearance.
He used to be more circumspect with his wishes.
He climbs the stairs, steps into the sunlit study full of the smells of bacon and steamed vegetables and freshly-baked scones, and closes the darkness of the Cave away behind him.
end.
Notes:
The title is taken from the first line of a posthumously-published poem by Edgar Allen Poe, which can be found here: http://www.eapoe.org/works/poems/alonea.htm
The inspiration for the story owes much to the scans![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thete1 has been sharing lately of old BATMAN and DETECTIVE COMICS issues chronicling Tim's first few months as Robin, as well as to Devin Grayson's GOTHAM KNIGHTS storyline which immediately preceded "Bruce Wayne: Murderer," and also to an extremely creepy BATMAN: BLACK & WHITE story which someone will no doubt identify for me -- if you know it, you'll know the one I mean called "The Lesson" which ran as the back-up story to GOTHAM KNIGHTS #20. The brilliant monkeycrackmary correctly identified it for me, and Te turned out to have posted the eight-page story in its entirety some months ago, so you can read it for yourself here.
Many thanks tolcsbanana and jamjar for audiencing.
other Gotham stories by the Jack
all Jack's LJ-posted fanfiction
or find original fiction here
Anyway, a Gotham story. Notes follow.
From Childhood's Hour
He knows something is wrong as soon as he wakes.
It's not merely that he's awake when the sun is high in the sky, less than an hour from noon to judge by the angle of the light falling in his windows. Something has unsettled him.
He stays in bed a moment, but can't identify the source of the feeling.
Rising, he goes to the bathroom, splashes water on his face, passes water in the commode. His reflection in the mirror looks... off. He can't put his finger on what's odd about his countenance; he wants to say he looks haunted, but that's a familiar expression which is entirely absent today.
He puts off showering and shaving in favour of pulling on pyjama pants, leather slippers and a robe, and heading downstairs. The hallways echo oddly, as if the house is more empty than usual, but he doesn't linger to examine that impression. There's a sensation of urgency, a feeling he's forgotten something important.
Even his gait is off, as though he'd woken missing a limb and hadn't yet found a new equilibrium.
The bats take wing as he descends the stairs, shrieking as if at a stranger's intrusion into their home.
No emergencies have triggered the situation alarms in the computer system; Gotham's day has been quiet, thus far at least. One screen blinks balefully on the bank of monitors: a recorded message. He sits, the chair feeling uncomfortably unfamiliar, and plays it back.
It's from Tim. He can see Robin's new lair in the background, and Tim is in full uniform, his mask in place, his gauntleted hands steepled above his lap, his cape closed around him.
"We need to talk," the recorded image says, and moves one hand out of frame; the screen goes blank.
Tim has always been able to summon a commanding, foreboding voice, with a certain tone that, even when he had worn the cape and cowl, Dick had at best only ever been able to imitate. There's a new *depth* to that tone, now.
We need to talk, Tim had said, but it isn't true. They don't need to *talk* at all.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred queries from the top of the stairs. It's unusual for him to be up at this time of day, and Alfred's surprise is evident.
Alfred rarely hides his emotions in a way that would fool anyone who knows the man. The prospect of his elation, and subsequent horror, at learning what has happened... "I'm up, Alfred. I'll take brunch in the study." He stands. The Batman will be going out tonight, and for the foreseeable future, but the Batman no longer comprises the only life he can envision for his future. "And would you call and see whether Lucius Fox can meet with me this afternoon?"
Alfred's reaction is mainly more surprise and curiosity, but there's a proud pleasure that makes him look away before Alfred has even turned to carry out his wishes.
He settles his robe more firmly about his shoulders after he hears the door shut, cinches it more firmly closed, and looks around the Cave. He takes in the vehicles sitting sleek and ready in their bays, the exercise mats and weights and gymnastics equipment, the gleaming arrays of machines used for criminological analysis, the accessways leading to trophy storage and data storage.
The long pause changes nothing. The cavernous space is quiet now, even the bats having settled down once more. No voice speaks. There is no presence here save his own.
He stares for another moment at the case that holds Jason's costume, but he's thinking of Tim.
He's long hoped that Tim would one day serve as his successor. He's wished, more and more these last few years, to be free of the Bat, of the long shadow that has darkened his life since he was a boy, even before he ceased to *be* a boy in anything but outward appearance.
He used to be more circumspect with his wishes.
He climbs the stairs, steps into the sunlit study full of the smells of bacon and steamed vegetables and freshly-baked scones, and closes the darkness of the Cave away behind him.
end.
Notes:
The title is taken from the first line of a posthumously-published poem by Edgar Allen Poe, which can be found here: http://www.eapoe.org/works/poems/alonea.htm
The inspiration for the story owes much to the scans
thete1 has been sharing lately of old BATMAN and DETECTIVE COMICS issues chronicling Tim's first few months as Robin, as well as to Devin Grayson's GOTHAM KNIGHTS storyline which immediately preceded "Bruce Wayne: Murderer," and also to an extremely creepy BATMAN: BLACK & WHITE story monkeycrackmary correctly identified it for me, and Te turned out to have posted the eight-page story in its entirety some months ago, so you can read it for yourself here.Many thanks to
lcsbanana and jamjar for audiencing.other Gotham stories by the Jack
all Jack's LJ-posted fanfiction
or find original fiction here
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no subject
Date: 2004-12-08 10:53 am (UTC)Yes. Especially with the "demon in my view" at the very end. It's perfect for Bruce.