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parrotficTitle: Themes in the Key of B
Fandom: Batman Begins
Character/relationship: Bruce Wayne/Batman
Theme number: #29 - Ocean
Disclaimer/claimer: I don't own any of these characters. All belongs to WB and Bob Kane and DC comics and David Goyer/Christopher Nolan. I make no money off of this.
Summary: An autumn day and the ocean.
Notes: Kinda weird.
29.) Ocean
Gotham, being an island city and all, has many beaches, and during the summer, they are always crowded with people.
But in autumn, the visitors disappear, leaving the beaches bare and beautiful. Bruce walks down to one of them, one day, while doing reconnaissance. He's not quite sure why. Maybe the loneliness of it draws him. Maybe there is something far more elemental than even that. Bruce doesn't know.
It's a cloudy day, and the ocean stretches out into the gray horizon. The wind is strong here, and Bruce thinks of what it would be like to float on it, flying.
He pulls off his shoes and socks and feels the cool sand beneath his toes. The cell phone and the wallet go into the shoes along with the socks so that they won't get wet or covered in sand. Bruce isn't sure why he's doing this; it's all just instinct at this point, no real thinking it through (and it has been a long time since Bruce last did that, just let himself go).
He only goes ankle deep, at first, rolls up his pants so that the waves only lap at his bare shins. The water is cold, but it doesn't bother him. He's been exposed to far colder.
And he still doesn't know why he's doing this.
It doesn't feel quite right, yet. More. He needs to go deeper. He wades in further, until he's waist-deep and holding his arms up over the surface of the water.
Still not quite far enough. Keep going. The water just below his chest. He turns around and sees Gotham skyscrapers in the distance, sees bridges even farther down, shrouded in mist. They look gray and beautiful, colors washed out of it by the clouds and the inclement rain. He wonders if it's possible that, at this moment, Gotham is as quiet and empty as it looks. It's not, not really, but it looks possible from here. Just possible enough to believe.
Here. This is the right place. He closes his eyes and ducks under the water. Submerged. He knows better than to open his eyes to the harsh seawater, and he likes the blackness behind his eyelids, likes the cold of the water, likes the way his clothes drift around him. Cleansing.
Bruce has no religion now, preferring to remain casually agnostic, but he still recognizes the religious underpinnings of this. A baptism, of a sort. I shall be clean. He almost thinks he hears a female voice respond, yes.
And then he needs to breathe. It's easy enough to stand up again, but he feels different when coming up. Something in him has changed.
It doesn't make any sense, but maybe it's not supposed to. It was right. Bruce knows this somehow.
He walks back to the shore and sits on a high bank, so that he has a good view of the ocean. His clothes and the sand stick to him uncomfortably, but that feels right. He's cold and it's hard to repress the shiver that wracks his entire body. It's autumn, and he's sitting in wet clothes on a windy beach. But that feels right also.
It is entirely possible that he will catch a cold today.
He remembers his first beach. The memory is tinged a bright gold, like many of his childhood memories are. It was hot that day, and the sweat had glued his hair to his neck. He remembers the people, though there weren't that many of them, and none of them stared the way they stared when Bruce went with his parents to the movies. Maybe Bruce remembers it wrong.
He does still remember sweet, sticky ice cream, the way the salt water stung his eyes, his mother's gentle hands toweling his hair, Alfred's rich laugh as Bruce showed him a shell he had found where the beach met the water.
And for a moment, Bruce thinks he can see it, shimmering, in front of him. He reaches out to touch it again, if only for a moment.
But then the wind picks up, and the illusion is blown away like sand.
The sky is darkening even further. Not a storm. Night. Bruce has been here too long. He has other things to do, other responsibilities.
He picks himself up, brushes off as much sand as he can and walks over to his shoes. He pulls his cell phone from his sock and calls Alfred.
It will be a few minutes before he comes, and Bruce thinks of sitting down again on the beach, running his fingers through the sand.
No. That moment has passed.
Instead, he walks back onto the hard pavement, carrying his shoes in his hand, and waits for Alfred to arrive.
Fandom: Batman Begins
Character/relationship: Bruce Wayne/Batman
Theme number: #29 - Ocean
Disclaimer/claimer: I don't own any of these characters. All belongs to WB and Bob Kane and DC comics and David Goyer/Christopher Nolan. I make no money off of this.
Summary: An autumn day and the ocean.
Notes: Kinda weird.
29.) Ocean
Gotham, being an island city and all, has many beaches, and during the summer, they are always crowded with people.
But in autumn, the visitors disappear, leaving the beaches bare and beautiful. Bruce walks down to one of them, one day, while doing reconnaissance. He's not quite sure why. Maybe the loneliness of it draws him. Maybe there is something far more elemental than even that. Bruce doesn't know.
It's a cloudy day, and the ocean stretches out into the gray horizon. The wind is strong here, and Bruce thinks of what it would be like to float on it, flying.
He pulls off his shoes and socks and feels the cool sand beneath his toes. The cell phone and the wallet go into the shoes along with the socks so that they won't get wet or covered in sand. Bruce isn't sure why he's doing this; it's all just instinct at this point, no real thinking it through (and it has been a long time since Bruce last did that, just let himself go).
He only goes ankle deep, at first, rolls up his pants so that the waves only lap at his bare shins. The water is cold, but it doesn't bother him. He's been exposed to far colder.
And he still doesn't know why he's doing this.
It doesn't feel quite right, yet. More. He needs to go deeper. He wades in further, until he's waist-deep and holding his arms up over the surface of the water.
Still not quite far enough. Keep going. The water just below his chest. He turns around and sees Gotham skyscrapers in the distance, sees bridges even farther down, shrouded in mist. They look gray and beautiful, colors washed out of it by the clouds and the inclement rain. He wonders if it's possible that, at this moment, Gotham is as quiet and empty as it looks. It's not, not really, but it looks possible from here. Just possible enough to believe.
Here. This is the right place. He closes his eyes and ducks under the water. Submerged. He knows better than to open his eyes to the harsh seawater, and he likes the blackness behind his eyelids, likes the cold of the water, likes the way his clothes drift around him. Cleansing.
Bruce has no religion now, preferring to remain casually agnostic, but he still recognizes the religious underpinnings of this. A baptism, of a sort. I shall be clean. He almost thinks he hears a female voice respond, yes.
And then he needs to breathe. It's easy enough to stand up again, but he feels different when coming up. Something in him has changed.
It doesn't make any sense, but maybe it's not supposed to. It was right. Bruce knows this somehow.
He walks back to the shore and sits on a high bank, so that he has a good view of the ocean. His clothes and the sand stick to him uncomfortably, but that feels right. He's cold and it's hard to repress the shiver that wracks his entire body. It's autumn, and he's sitting in wet clothes on a windy beach. But that feels right also.
It is entirely possible that he will catch a cold today.
He remembers his first beach. The memory is tinged a bright gold, like many of his childhood memories are. It was hot that day, and the sweat had glued his hair to his neck. He remembers the people, though there weren't that many of them, and none of them stared the way they stared when Bruce went with his parents to the movies. Maybe Bruce remembers it wrong.
He does still remember sweet, sticky ice cream, the way the salt water stung his eyes, his mother's gentle hands toweling his hair, Alfred's rich laugh as Bruce showed him a shell he had found where the beach met the water.
And for a moment, Bruce thinks he can see it, shimmering, in front of him. He reaches out to touch it again, if only for a moment.
But then the wind picks up, and the illusion is blown away like sand.
The sky is darkening even further. Not a storm. Night. Bruce has been here too long. He has other things to do, other responsibilities.
He picks himself up, brushes off as much sand as he can and walks over to his shoes. He pulls his cell phone from his sock and calls Alfred.
It will be a few minutes before he comes, and Bruce thinks of sitting down again on the beach, running his fingers through the sand.
No. That moment has passed.
Instead, he walks back onto the hard pavement, carrying his shoes in his hand, and waits for Alfred to arrive.
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