Writing Prompt #12
Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.
Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.
Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.
While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.
These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".
There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—
"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.
But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.
He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.
"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.
"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.
"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.
He doesn't look away from the man.
"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."
"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.
The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.
The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"
Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."
"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."
He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.
"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.
"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.
"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."
"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.
"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."
"Him."
"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."
"Why me?"
"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."
This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.
"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"
"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."
Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."
"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."
"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."
"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."
"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."
"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.
"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.
"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."
"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."
"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."
Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.
Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.
"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."
The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.
"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.
"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."
"I have more than one."
"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."
"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"
There is a pause.
"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."
"Resolve what?"
"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."
"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.
"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."
Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."
The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.
"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."
"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."
"They will have already muzzled him."
Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.
"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."
"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—
Clack!
"sluuuuurp!"
"Master Timothy, honestly!"
"Sorry Alfred!"
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as is pretty obvious, the rockstar! eddie has not yet left the premises of my brain and will be staying there indefinitely so here’s a little something.
no upside down au, 2010s, eddie doesn’t know anyone from the party, but dustin finds out about this rockstar who writes songs about his dnd campaigns and makes tolkien references, but his music is also raw and haunting, so obviously he’s obsessed. he bothers steve about him until steve forfeits and buys them both tickets for the show in indianapolis. steve’s deaf and he hasn’t been to a concert from the point at which he lost his hearing, because he just feels weird and out of place even thinking about going to something that is so hearing-centered. he enjoys cranking up the music in his car or while he’s listening to it at home, but going to a concert always felt like taking a place from somebody who can enjoy the experience fully. robin told him it’s bullshit and tried to drag him to some venues before, but he never agreed. but well- he doesn’t trust dustin alone in a crowded venue, because he’s excitable and reckless (even though dustin’s “literally 18, god, steve, do you even fucking hear yourself-“) so he feels better going on a concert while actually fulfilling some important role.
they go, and dustin is ecstatic. steve is flabbergasted, because he didn’t expect to gain anything from this except peace of mind for dustin’s safety, but when the first song starts to play, it reverberates through his whole body. it’s not the same as the concerts he went to with his hearing still mostly intact, but he can hear the lower pitches, he can feel the beat thrumming through him, and he finds himself headbanging along with dustin by the end of the show. but because he generally just turned away when dustin was rambling about the ingenuity of the lyrics, dustin ends up spending half the concert scrambling to sign along with the lyrics as much as he can, at least on his favorite parts, because he can’t just let steve not experience the sheer “wholesomeness and coolness” of what’s going on. on some songs he just outright refuses to sign to steve, blushing, and when steve teases and prods dustin angrily admits that he’s “not going to translate to you exactly the way he wants to fuck a pretty boy”. steve laughs, but finds himself blushing too. because the frontman is scorching hot, and maybe steve wouldn’t mind finding out exactly the way he wants to fuck a pretty boy (but definitely not from dustin).
so even though his head started hurting by the end of the night from all the flashing lights on stage, even though he’s sweaty and gross and dustin is jumping around like an overexcited puppy, his hands flashing in rapid-fire speech steve doesn’t have the mental capacity to process at the moment, he finds that he enjoyed himself. that he, dare he say, would not mind going again. dustin goes ballistic at the admission and says that it’s only fair if steve takes him to another cc concert considering that dustin was too busy translating half the show too properly appreciate his first cc concert, which wouldn’t be necessary if steve “bothered to listen to him from time to time”.
afterwards, dustin posts a picture of both of them on twitter, sweaty and exhausted after the show, but both smiling wide with a caption: “took my lame brother to the cc concert yesterday!! he said “i could actually hear something, holy shit. just how loud are these guys? also, would like to know what the fuck the hot guy’s singing in the horny songs, but dustin refused to sign” which, obv i did because my brother is disgusting and i hate him actually. but now he owes me another concert because i spent most of the first one translating, so we’ll see you in *insert the nearest next city*, @corrodedcoffin-official!! thanks for the great show!!”
and eddie comes across the post purely by chance and immediately bluescreens at the sight of a preppy guy in a bright polo with exquisite fucking hair, thank you very much, hugging his toothily smiling little brother in a cc t-shirt. he never considered the issues the Deaf people can face coming to their shows before, and well, if the man wants to know exactly what eddie likes to do to pretty boys like him, it would be a shame to deny him. so he talks to the band, and they hire a sign language interpreter for the next show (and not just because eddie’s horny, okay?? he genuinely wants to let as much people as possible fully enjoy their music, fuck off, gareth-)
and when dustin and steve come to the next show and see an interpreter standing by the stage, they both fucking lose it. when dustin saw a like on his post from the official corroded coffin page, he obviously screamed bloody murder and told everyone who would (and wouldn’t) listen about it, steve just felt awkward about the hot frontman knowing the dumb shit he said, but neither of them expected anything to come of it. and now, seeing the interpreter near the stage, finally finding out the stories the group tells through their music, steve can’t help feeling mesmerized by the scene. and he doesn’t tear up about finally feeling included after being dismissed and told to deal with his shit on his own for so long, of course not.
and then, during the gap between the songs, eddie points to the interpreter: “i would like to say special thanks to amazing *insert name*, who agreed to translate our shitty music in asl so nobody could escape us. i hope dustin and his insanely hot brother can both enjoy the show properly now” he grins at the cheering audience, and steve feels himself flushing bright red all over. he can see the moment the frontman’s eyes find him in the crowd, and the guy has the gall to wink at him. dustin has ascended the mortal plane at that point and just screams incoherently while shaking steve by the arm. “and all the other deaf and hoh folks in attendance tonight, thank you for coming!” he continues smoothly, and the band slides into another song. steve just keeps staring at the stage, uncomprehending. he can vaguely recognize the slower and deeper track as one of those dustin refused to translate to him. and now, actually seeing the lyrics, he can understand why. he flushes again. it feels like his brain starts spinning in circles in his head from how hard he tries to keep his eyes on the interpreter and the frontman at the same time (the shit this munson guy does to the microphone stand with his hips has got to be illegal in at least several states). during the bridge munson finds his eyes in the crowd and obscenely licks his lips. steve dies on the spot. he can feel dustin hitting him on the arm, signing something about the way he “can’t believe your gross jock powers have worked on eddie munson” that steve barely sees from the corner of his eyes, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
and then steddie somehow meet face to face and make out, idk. the end! *jazz hands*
i’m NOT D/deaf or hoh!! if i said something dumb or inaccurate, please tell me!
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