Ghosts of Turkeys Past [locked to Speirs, predated to late Thursday]
Bruce was in pain.
Oh, not the physical kind that you could stitch up then sit there and watch bleed. The strength he'd lost wasn't so easy to trace. The insidous thoughts, the doubts that had wormed thier way in weren't so easy to cure as gangrene.
The pain was just as real, centering somewhere behind his heart. Somewhere in his head. A dull ached that burned as much as it left him cold.
He missed Alfred. Finally being allowed to help in the kitchen, lifting a pan twice his weight over his head, his friend and protector looking on affectinately.
His father lifting him up so he could reach the huge banquet table.
His mother laughing at his dislike of the party, and sitting down with him for the rest of the night and telling stories about everyone there.
Feeling safe, feeling warm.
Feeling cold. Alone but for a distant tether. The third year he hadn't even realized the holiday had passed for an entire month.
Back home, helping in silence. Half apology and half guilt. A shared smile, a shared quite warmth.
A feeling of purpose.
---
Bruce choked on another sob and threw himself towards the door. He had to get away. Far enough from himself that he could make it through the goddamn day.
A man in a starched suit was knocking on Speirs' door. Dark, tinted sunglasses covered red, blood shot eyes. The knocking covered the trembling. The pressed suit and wine bottle finished the illusion.
Oh, not the physical kind that you could stitch up then sit there and watch bleed. The strength he'd lost wasn't so easy to trace. The insidous thoughts, the doubts that had wormed thier way in weren't so easy to cure as gangrene.
The pain was just as real, centering somewhere behind his heart. Somewhere in his head. A dull ached that burned as much as it left him cold.
He missed Alfred. Finally being allowed to help in the kitchen, lifting a pan twice his weight over his head, his friend and protector looking on affectinately.
His father lifting him up so he could reach the huge banquet table.
His mother laughing at his dislike of the party, and sitting down with him for the rest of the night and telling stories about everyone there.
Feeling safe, feeling warm.
Feeling cold. Alone but for a distant tether. The third year he hadn't even realized the holiday had passed for an entire month.
Back home, helping in silence. Half apology and half guilt. A shared smile, a shared quite warmth.
A feeling of purpose.
---
Bruce choked on another sob and threw himself towards the door. He had to get away. Far enough from himself that he could make it through the goddamn day.
A man in a starched suit was knocking on Speirs' door. Dark, tinted sunglasses covered red, blood shot eyes. The knocking covered the trembling. The pressed suit and wine bottle finished the illusion.