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In hindsight, hosting a science exhibit in Gotham was probably not the best idea that Bruce has ever heard. This wasn't even one of Bruce's events and, yet he was still attending because it gave him the opportunity to scope out any potential rogues (or henchmen).
Damian was by his side, and Tim was on the other side of the room, inspecting some of the other inventions under the prospect of gaining new hires for R&D at WE. Something that was not entirely false. Bruce could always use new, bright minds working to make Gotham a better place.
He was, particularly, eyeing up one moderately-sized invention that a woman with cutting blue eyes and stark white hair had covered with a white sheet. An interesting choice when everyone else had already revealed their own inventions. Drifting closer with Damian, he smiles charmingly at the scientist when they lock eyes.
"And what is this interesting contraption?" He asks, looking over the sheet as if it was the invention itself and not what was underneath.
The woman curled purple-painted fingers around the sheet, yanking it down to reveal a machine that looks like a mix of a jukebox and a grandfather clock. A long wire was attached to it, and a strange, blinking, circlet-like device connected on the other end.
Bruce's brows rose considerably, and he could sense Damian's eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"This is my Holographic Memory Machine -- the name is still a work in progress -- it's a memory machine meant to allow anyone to relive their memories right in front of them, even the ones they don't remember." The woman says with a smile, her name card reads 'Dr. Casey W. Kronus'. He's never heard of her before, and his eyebrow raises higher at the unusual last name. An out-of-townie, perhaps?
"Interesting." Bruce's hands fold behind his back and he looks down at his disinterested son, and then back up to Dr. Kronus. It sounded harmless, but even a pencil could be harmless until enough force was put into it. "How does that work?"
Dr. Kronus walks over and holds up the strange circlet device, "The user wears this headband. It scans their brainwaves and then plays a memory of their choice right in front of them like a hologram, including any voices that came with it." She explains, showing it off to Bruce and Damian. "Would either of you like to try it? The HMM has been tested and it is completely safe."
Damian scoffs and turns to him, "This is a waste of time, father," He says, "let's move on."
"Oh, don't be like that, Dames." Bruce smiles genially, placing a hand on his son's shoulder and squeezing it. It reminds him of when his father used to do the exact same thing, and he turns to Dr. Kronus. "I can try it, Doctor."
Kronus smiles widely, looking incredibly pleased. "Come stand here then, Mr. Wayne. I can get the HMM up and working." She gestures to a spot on the floor within the circlet's range, and Bruce goes and does as told.
"Standing around and looking pretty is my specialty, Doctor Kronus." He jokes as she gets the device situated on his head. It sits on his forehead snugly, and tucks behind his ears. Kronus snorts and turns to get the machine activated.
"Father ." Damian says, indignant and scowling. His arms crossed over his chest petulantly. Bruce chuckles at him.
"The Doctor said it was perfectly safe, Damian." He admonishes lightly, wagging a finger at him. "I trust the good lady to know what she's doing." Not really, but he'd rather test it out on himself if it was unsafe.
Thirty seconds passed with Dr. Kronus working on flicking on the HMM, and when it came alive it came with a low hum and a distinct, ticking like noise. "Ah, there we go." She hums, stepping away. "It's up and working, Mister Wayne. Just think of a memory and let the HMM do the rest."
"Thank you, Doctor." Bruce nods at her, and then tries to think of what to let the machine show. Nothing that would give away his identity as Batman, of course not. Nothing incriminating.
He looks to Damian, who still looked very unhappy with him. Perhaps a memory of one of his boys in the manor? Or a Brucie Wayne moment that everyone's seen. His brows furrow in thought. One of his speeches?
...No. No, actually, he has an idea.
Immediately, the HMM begins to hum louder, the ticking drowned out by the sound of its fans kicking in. It starts drawing the attention of the other ongoers, and Damian steps to Bruce's side as a crowd begins to form.
"What is that thing?"
"What's it doing?"
"Is it safe?"
Hushed whispers scatter around them as more and more people abandon the other stalls in favor of seeing whatever spectacle was happening. Tim appears as well, pushing his way through the crowd and situating himself by Damian and Bruce.
"What's going on?" He whispers with a frown, looking between Bruce and Damian.
Damian hmphs, "Father is trying out this woman's 'Memory Machine'."
Just when Bruce is starting to think the machine doesn't work, he hears a sound that silences the spectators. A piano note. A singular note, followed by another, and another. Right before Bruce's eyes, the air shimmers, and a projection of his father sitting at the grand piano appears before him.
His breath hitches in his throat. He remembers this. He remembers this piece. It was father's favorite.
Damian and Tim are stiff at his side, and Bruce hears the crowd gasp.
There, sitting on the floor at the bench, is Bruce himself at six years old. He's resting his arms on it, and leaning his head on his arms with a look of pure adoration -- did he really look like that? -- aimed at his father.
There's no talking between them, a content silence as Thomas Wayne fills the air with his piano playing. That is-- until he stops midway through the piece, fingers stopping the keys with a abrupt jerk.
Thomas laughs, quiet and full of love, and little Bruce picks his head up with an affronted frown. "Why'd you stop? I like listening to you play."
"I know you do." Thomas says, his voice is as soothing as Bruce remembers it to be. The memory twists to look at little Bruce with a blinding smile, as if he was looking at his whole world. It's the first time in decades that Bruce has seen his father smiling like-- like that. His eyes involuntarily sting.
"But how can you hear so well when you're all the way down there?" Thomas shifts, and pats an open space on the bench. "Come sit up here, Boo. I can teach you to play."
(Thomas Wayne was always fond of pet names, he had plenty of them for Bruce, and he used them at every opportunity.)
Little Bruce perks up, "Really?" He grins, and then clambers into the bench. His father's arms wrap around him like an instinct, and his cheek tilts to rest against Bruce's dark curls.
The voices fade as the memory slowly begins to collapse, and Bruce feels a spike of panic in his heart before the memory is replaced by another one.
He's younger, probably four years old, being sprayed down by a hose by his father. Little Bruce is squealing with laughter, trying to swat the water away like a fly, and his clothes are drenched.
Thomas is laughing as well, wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looks like he just came home from a business meeting. Bruce always thought he was old when he was little. But at four years old, Thomas Wayne is only a little over twenty. Barely an adult. He is twenty-four when he dies. He was so young.
"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Little Bruce squeals, trying to run out of the line of fire, but Thomas Wayne has a sharp eye, and the hose in his hands follow Bruce no matter where he goes.
Until finally, Thomas drops the hose and runs towards Bruce, who is trying to recover from being sprayed down with ice cold water, flicking water off his soaked arms. Thomas reaches him before he has time to move, and scoops him up in his arms.
He is laughing loudly and boisterously, spinning them both around as Bruce clings to him for dear life, laughing with him. The memory fades away, and Bruce feels like there are hands around his throat trying to choke him.
A new one shows up, one he doesn't remember at all. His father is younger than before, a teenager, and he's holding a tiny bundle in his arms. He looks like he's on the verge of tears, hunched over it like a shield.
Someone, a girl with gothic attire, peers over his shoulder. "Gosh, Tom, a baby? That's a lot of responsibility." She says, dark-lipstick lips painted downwards in a frown. "And right after you've disowned your parents too?"
Another boy looks around Thomas with a similar frown and an uncertain look, "Yeah man, I'm with Sam on this one -- for once. You don't even have anywhere to live."
Thomas doesn't look like he's even paying attention, utterly smitten with the baby -- its himself, Bruce realizes -- he's cradling. "Look at him though, guys," he breathes, "he's so tiny. Have you seen his little watercolor eyes?"
(Watercolor eyes. Bruce had long since forgotten about that nickname his father gave him. hearing him say it is like a punch to his stomach.)
He zoned, and only zones back in when the other boy makes a noise of disbelief; "You named him Bruce?"
Bruce huffs to himself, an involuntary smile twitching at his mouth as the memory dips again and cycles through another memory he recognizes.
The memories it shows are sporadic, with no chronological order to them other than each and every one is a happy one.
Bruce playing piano with his father.
Bruce stargazing with his father in the garden.
("If you're ever alone, Bruce, just look up at the stars." His dad whispers into little Bruce's hair, Bruce tucked into his side like a secret.
"I'll never be alone." Says the young Bruce, full of confidence with a chorus of frogs and grasshoppers under his feet. "I have you."
His father's laugh is soft and fond, and he pets Bruce's cheek. "Not all the time, my darling. So during that time when you don't, just look at the stars, and know that I'm looking at them too.")
Bruce being carried on his father's shoulders.
(Bruce once joked that one day he'll be too big for his father to carry. Thomas only laughed at him and said that Bruce will never be too big, he'll always be able to carry his son.)
Bruce getting ready for a gala with his father.
(His father had a particular way in which he did his ties, and he always seemed to favor this cheap, ugly blue one that clashed with his eyes. Bruce keeps that tie in his drawer, and takes it out before he goes to galas.)
Bruce in the kitchen helping his dad make breakfast. (There's pancake flour smeared on his cheek, breakfast has always been the only meal Bruce was good at making.)
Bruce making a snowman with his father.
(His father could go out in the snow in a t-shirt and start snowball fights without any gloves. Bruce tried it once and nearly caught a cold. His father doted on him until he felt better, and made him hot chocolate to warm up his freezing hands.)
An apology between Bruce and his father in the form of a piano duet.
(It was one of the only few fights they had, and Bruce can't remember what it was about. But he does remember that duet afterwards.)
There are even a few memories he doesn't remember. Some of them are when he's old enough that he could've, but many are when he's a baby. Some are before his father was adopted by the Waynes, when the only thing on his back was a raggedy backpack and an oversized sweatshirt and Bruce's baby blanket, his young face haggard and exhausted and full of love as he steals formula from a grocery store to feed him. And some are after, where he's sitting in an antique rocking chair bottle feeding Bruce with that same look of sheer adoration on his face, or swaying in place, singing baby Bruce to sleep.
In every single memory, Thomas Wayne looks at his son as if he hung the stars in the sky. As if he was the greatest thing in his life.
Finally, the HMM settles on a final memory, one that makes Bruce's blood run cold and snaps him out of his nostalgic revelry. His father is getting ready in his room, and Bruce comes barreling in wearing his own suit-and-tie.
"Dad! Dad! Dad!" He chants, running to Thomas, who twirls around and picks him up seamlessly. They spin twice before Thomas settles in front of the mirror, Bruce on his hip as he adjusts his ugly blue tie with one hand.
"Yes, boo?" Thomas grins, wide-splitting with his shock-blue eyes looking at Bruce in the reflection. He and Bruce have the same eyes. It's shocking how much they look like each other, now that Bruce was older. It hurts, knowing that Bruce has lines in his face that his father never had the chance to have.
Little Bruce makes a dramatic face, a look that only lasts a few seconds before he remembers his excitement. He wiggles in Thomas' arms, "You gotta hurry up! Or we'll be late to the movie!"
Bruce's fingers dig into his palm, and he can vaguely feel his sons' looking at him. There's a sensation of impending doom square in the center of his lungs, and he forces himself to look on.
Thomas laughs, and nuzzles Bruce's cheek. "The movie isn't going anywhere, chum, I promise." He says, before setting him down. Little Bruce pouts, his lower lip sticking out. "I know how much you've been looking forward to this."
"Can you help me with my tie then?" Bruce asks, and looks at his own, sloppily done tie around his neck, a much more flattering color and material than Thomas Wayne's. "I can never get it right."
And, of course, Thomas Wayne kneels down to redo it. He always did everything Bruce asked or wanted. He measures it, loops it, and then knots the tie perfectly.
"There." He says, and smoothes out Bruce's little jacket, smiling in adoration. "Now go play, I'll call you when it's time to go."
And Bruce does just that, running out of the room with a yell of; "You better promise!"
"I promise!" Thomas yells back, laughing at his son as he turns back to the mirror.
The memory shimmers, and changes to as they're leaving. And then and there does Bruce call it quits. His eyes are glistening, his tears nearly blinding him with the swelling, overwhelming grief in his heart. He looks away, and tries to find Doctor Kronus.
(He doesn't see her switch something on the side of the machine. There is no noticeable difference in the machine, but on the inside a time rune starts to glow.)
"I think I'm done here, Doctor." He says once he can find his voice without it shaking. He can't hide the full crack and tremble laying beneath it, but at least he doesn't cry. He's almost forgotten that he had a silent audience.
Doctor Kronus nods and steps forward, reaching for the headband. "The memories should cut off once I take this off, Mister Wayne." She says, and fiddles with it for a moment. Behind her, the memory of himself and his father are walking outside. "I hope that wasn't too much for you?"
(The ticking of the machine grows louder, and the memory glitches.)
"No, no." Bruce assures with a smile that wasn't all Brucie Wayne yet. He looks down when he feels Damian's hand curl around his, and his son leans into his side. His smile softens, and he presses Damian closer. His other arm finds itself over Tim's shoulders as well, pressing him to his side.
"It was fine. Actually, it was an honor to be the first to try out your memory machine. I'm sure it will help many people." He tells her. She smiles slyly, and slides the headband off his head.
"That's what I'm hoping for, Mister Wayne." Doctor Kronus places the headband onto the table. The memory hasn't disappeared, Bruce notes with a furrow of his brows. And the audio has muffled slightly.
"I thought you said that the memory would cut off when the headband was off?" He asks. Kronus looks at him, and then behind her at the memory. She frowns.
"It should have--"
Little Bruce suddenly frowns, and looks away from Thomas. "Do you hear that?"
Bruce frowns. "I don't remember this." That wasn't in his memory. They just went straight to Monarch Theater without any issue.
Thomas looks down at his son, "What noise?" He asks, squeezing Bruce's hand. His head cranes, as if trying to hear whatever noise Bruce was hearing.
"That ticking sound." Bruce's frown deepens, "It sounds like your clock, dad."
Thomas' immediately frowns, looking so strikingly like Bruce that he marvels for a moment. He looks around as well. "...You're right. I hear it too." He steps a little closer to Bruce, his hand tightening around his.
A sense of unease fills Bruce's lungs. "What's going on?" He asks, taking a step away from the memory. This was different. This isn't his memory.
"I'm not sure." Doctor Kronus says, and her unsurety sounds so practiced and calm that Bruce's suspicion levels to her immediately. His boys look at her too with the same unease. "This wasn't supposed to happen."
She strides around the memory to the side of the machine just as a gold symbol appears on the ground. It looks like a giant roman clock, and a loud, clunky ticking fills the room.
The memories see it too, and Bruce's heart drops to his feet as he and the rest of the crowd back away from it. "Dad, what is that?!" Little Bruce exclaims, a look of fear morphing across his face as he suddenly clings to his dad's leg.
Thomas looks pale, looking at his feet and gripping little Bruce to him protectively. "I don't-- I don't know, Bruce."
(A memory that Bruce does not have is his father arguing with a man named Clockwork. He does not see the man named Clockwork all but beg Thomas not to go out tonight.)
("Does something happen to Bruce?" His father asks the ghost, calmly fixing his hair.)
("No," the man says, "but--")
("But nothing, Clockwork." Thomas, once Danny, says firmly. "My son has been looking forward to this all week. I'm not going to crush his hopes by changing my mind last minute.")
("Thomas, please." )
("Look, if something happens tonight, I will handle it, okay?" Thomas assures him, a hand atop Clockwork's shoulder with a small smile. "I promise.")
(And then he leaves, leaving Clockwork defeated in his wake.)
(Clockwork has seen this boy grow up from the shadows, and now he can do nothing to stop his fate like he once did before.)
The strange, clock-like circle, something intrinsically magic, begins to glow. The minute and hour hands tick faster and faster. Little Bruce holds onto his father like a lifeline, and Thomas Wayne crouches down to hold his son tighter, protectively.
Bruce Wayne turns away just as the light grows blinding, tucking Tim and Damian into his chest like a human shield. There is yelling and screams as the crowd tries to stampede away from it.
Bruce has no idea what this light will do, but he'd rather die than let his sons get hurt.
The light burns his eyelids even when he isn't facing it. And when it dies without even a burn across his back, Bruce slowly unfurls. His hands stay on his sons' shoulders, keeping them close to him, and he peers over his shoulder.
There on his knees, is Thomas Wayne, curled protectively around eight year old Bruce Wayne, much like Bruce had been. Bruce holds his breath, and his sons slowly unfurl themselves as well and peer around him.
Thomas Wayne is frozen in place for one second, two seconds, three. And then he begins to move. First, the tension drains out of his shoulders, and his head jerks, as if surprised that nothing has happened.
He looks up, and he and Bruce make eye contact. Bruce cannot breathe, and he cannot believe the sight before him. It's just the memory machine breaking. (Doctor C.W Kronus is nowhere to be found.) His father's eyes are just as he remembers them being; impossibly, indescribably blue and capable of piercing through the skin to see the soul beneath it. this time, foreignly, his father does not look at him lovingly. Instead he just looks confused, and even a little defensive.
And then recognition flickers in his father's face as his panting slows and quiets. His head tilts to the side like a fawn's, a familiar wrinkle appearing before his brows.
"Bruce?”