i pinky promise im working on my fic!!!!! im so sorry for the long delay, life has been crazy with my health issues and i just finished exams! the next chapter should be out soon!
y’all!! yk that long-form, multi-chapter fic i was talking about writing? yeah, well i wrote the first chapter and it should be released on ao3 soon (and then tumblr just a few days after)!
it does include scarebat but i promise that if you are not into that ship, the scarebat is just a plot device. batjokes is endgame.
summary: He was finally going to do it. Avenge his parent’s death. Joe Chill would die just like his parents did, shot and left to bleed out. An eye for an eye seemed almost too fair for Bruce.
Joe Chill should suffer.
*
An AU in which Bruce Wayne kills Joe Chill and is sent to Arkham Asylum, only to meet the one and only Joker.
an: hey y'all! welcome to cáncun! i wrote this first chapter during this week and last week in my classes when i had free time. it’s basically been a stress reliever during the weeks leading up to my exams! this fic is important to me for so many reasons but my AU is also something i haven't really seen on any batjokes fics. i hope to write more fics like this to fill that void!
i hope you enjoy this fic and the first chapter!
so many thanks to my beta (@kingofspadesdelusion ) for supporting this fic and proofreading!
xx
YEAR ZERO —
Bruce switched the car into sixth gear, the needle on the 72’ El Camino’s speedometer steadily rising. The car’s motor growled as Bruce tore through the streets of Gotham. His revolver lay heavy and cold in the inside pocket of his coat.
He was finally going to do it. Avenge his parent’s death. Joe Chill would die just like his parents did, shot and left to bleed out. An eye for an eye seemed almost too fair for Bruce.
Joe Chill should suffer.
He parked his car haphazardly in front of the steps of the courthouse, Gotham’s large and imposing architecture only heightening Bruce’s emotions.
The courtroom’s atmosphere was thick and cold, the sting of Bruce’s ice-blue eyes never leaving the slumped-over form of his parent’s murderer.
He shifted in his seat, a slight move of his hand into the inside of his coat pocket, and then his hand was on the gun.
Time seemed to slow down as Bruce pulled out the gun, fingers grasping the trigger with fervor. The metal was both freezing and scalding to the touch.
He shot three times, in non-lethal areas, an ambulance would not be able to reach the courtroom in time to save him. Everyone would watch him suffer.
Joe Chill’s blood would stain this courtroom and all of Gotham.
Time sped up as screams rang out, cops rushing out to detain Bruce. He was pushed to the court’s marble floor, left cheek pressed painfully to the stone. A hand held Bruce’s head down, ruffling deep-brown locks. The metal of the handcuffs stung and cut into Bruce’s wrists, the click of the lock mechanism boomed loudly in his ears.
Emotions that had been bottled up for twelve years came out like a flood. It wasn't long before Bruce heard his own guttural screams through the cacophony of panicked and horrified noises.
*
Jim Gordon’s eyes lanced through Bruce’s foggy mind, cutting their rage into his brain.
“Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce’s jaw tensed, he shifted his head to look at Gordon more closely.
“I never thought I would see you in the station,” Jim walked towards him, his footsteps pounded loudly in Bruce’s ears, “not like this.”
Bruce bit his tongue as Jim continued, “What would your father think?”
A growl reverberated from his throat quickly, broken and animalistic. The chains on the handcuffs snapping apart as Bruce desperately reached for the officer’s shoulder. His nails tore at Gordon’s uniform, “Don't talk about my fucking father, Gordon.”
*
His court date came faster than time should allow, other, less serious cases were pushed back to allow the speediest of trials for Bruce. People were still in shock that, Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham could have murdered a man. The news channels and papers covered Bruce’s trial and sentencing closely for weeks, it wasn't every day that a billionaire was tried and convicted of first-degree murder. Mike Engel’s voice kept playing on a loop in his brain.
Bruce was in the same courtroom that Joe Chill was, except sitting shackled on the other side of the stand. Hundreds of eyes looking at Bruce, judging him for what he had done.
They had no room to judge. Their parents weren't mugged and murdered in front of their eyes, just for him to be left there alive and alone. They didn't know the rage that clawed at his organs and musculature. They didn't know the dark beast that told him to let his rage consume him.
The judge’s voice cut through the haze,
“Bruce Wayne, you are hereby sentenced to 20 years in Elizabeth’s Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, the first two years of that sentence being served at Blackgate Penitentiary.”
The gavel hit like a period on a sentence, the decision was final.
*
YEAR ONE-TWO —
The two years at Blackgate went quickly.
Bruce, unsurprisingly, was targeted by the other prisoners.
To the surprise of the other inmates, Bruce could fight. He was glad now that he had begged Alfred to let him take countless different martial arts classes when he was younger.
Alfred, though angry, still called Bruce whenever he could. He caught him up with the business at Wayne Enterprises and the manor, always mentioning the state of Bruce’s vast car collection. Rachel called once, voice stricken with anger and grief. She had never called again.
He was so thankful for Alfred.
Bruce had just turned 24 when he was due for his transfer to Arkham. The psychs re-evaluated his mental state every quarter and diagnosed him with a violent form of schizophrenia, chronic depression, and a multitude of unnamed emotional and anger disorders.
He honestly wasn't surprised.
*
YEAR THREE —
His psychologist at Arkham was a man named Jonathan Crane. He was beautiful in every definition of the word. Delicate features, full lips, high cheekbones, sophisticatedly styled black hair, and artic eyes that hid behind nerdy wire-framed glasses.
His eyes were the most interesting part of his facial features, they were so blue they almost looked white. They acted as bright, clean windows into his deep, dark soul.
His mind, however, was what Bruce loved most about him.
Dr. Jonathan Crane was obsessed with fear and how it could control people.
Bruce knew that is why they became fast friends.
*
“Good morning, Bruce!” The doctor was cheerful this morning, with a smile on his face, and two cups of coffee in his hands.
“You’re happy this morning, Jon.” Bruce looked at the shorter man, his own blue eyes trying to analyze what was causing the other man’s gleeful demeanor.
“I was just thinking about you,” Jonathan set the cups of coffee on his desk before Bruce interrupted him.
“Think about me a lot do you, Jon?” Bruce smiled at the psychologist, he reached for his cup of coffee, Jonathan always seemed to make it just right.
“Only sometimes, Bruce.” Jonathan smiled back, bringing his own cup of coffee to his lips, he liked his with two sugar cubes, no creamer. “I was thinking,” he paused briefly, “that today I will have a breakthrough.”
“Listen, you know that little monster that lives inside your head?” Jon’s blue eyes peered up at Bruce, he smirked before continuing, “I think it’s a bat.”
“Because bats are my greatest fear?” Bruce’s hand shifted to hold his chin, his elbow resting on the deep mahogany of his doctor’s desk.
“No, Bruce, that bat,” Jon’s smile slipped, his face morphing into something more serious and befitting for a psych, “is your greatest weapon.”
*
Being friends with Jon had immense benefits. The head psychologist could pull a lot of strings, and he often did, just for Bruce.
Even if that was just to get a hot shower or a piece of veggie pizza.
“Wayne, Dr. Crane needs you!” one of the guards on duty shouted to Bruce from across the cafeteria. He looked up, it was Mick DeLange, one of the better (and more malleable) guards. Bruce stood from his seat, grabbing his tray, “Bye, Victor, if I don't see you at dinner tonight I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said smoothly.
He gracefully cleaned off his tray and put it into the return cart, he waved briefly to Mick in thanks and walked toward the swinging double doors of the cafeteria.
“Bruce,” Jonathan spoke tersely. He always did when guards and other patients were around.
“Dr. Crane, you needed me for something?” Bruce spoke like always had, planned, effortlessly smooth, with the holier-than-thou edge of a billionaire playboy.
Jonathan turned on his black oxfords, expecting Bruce to follow after him.
Once they reached his office, Jonathan leaned against his desk and rubbed his hand over his face.
He looked tired today, exhausted really. He had heavy eye bags and circles under his cornflower blue eyes. His glasses were pushed back into his hair, his jet-black strands disheveled and misplaced. His hands trembled every few seconds.
Bruce scrutinized the other man’s behavior, Jonathan never acted like this. He was always confident and sure of himself, if Bruce was a psychologist, he’d question him on his huge ego.
“I’ve been working on something,” Jonathan finally looked into Bruce’s eyes, “I think you'd like to hear about it.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched, he moved from his place by the door to stand in front of his friend.
“Ok.” Bruce nodded slightly, his beast itched at his guts, Jonathan did something insane, he, and the beast, could sense it.
The black-haired man sighed unsteadily, dragging his shaking hand under his right eye to the bottom of his face.
“I’ve been working on my fear toxin.” He licked his full bottom lip, “I used it for the first time last night on some meth junkie, he was going through withdrawal.”
Bruce stared amazed at Jonathan, he nodded again, keeping his movements subtle so he would not startle his friend in this state.
“He was terrified, Bruce, he was so scared.” Jon’s demeanor shifted, a smirk gracing his features.
“I felt so powerful, I had his entire mind under my control!” He reached for Bruce’s broad shoulders, shaking them slightly with excitement.
His smile stretched wider and became genuine happiness, “See! Bruce, fear is what powers everything!” Jon’s hands shifted to hold Bruce’s jaw gently, “I will be unstoppable, and this is just the beginning.”
Bruce couldn't help but smile back.
“What will they call you?”
“The Scarecrow,” he whispered.
Jon’s hands gingerly fell away from Bruce’s face as Bruce thought about Jon’s apparent experiments and plans to control people’s fear.
He was fascinated really, as much as Jonathan picked at his brain, like a crow to seed, Bruce stuck his talons in and split open Jon’s.
His brain should be the one being studied.
The other man’s voice faded back into focus, “Would you like to see my mask?”
He smiled, pearly-white, perfect teeth gleamed under the murky, yellow light of the room. “Of course, Jon.”
Jonathan smiled, he strode behind his desk, slender fingers grasping a patchwork piece of burlap.
He held it up for Bruce to see, “Isn't it amazing?”
“Their fear will consume them, but they will also be consumed by the symbol of my mask,” the shorter man clutched Bruce’s wide palm, brushing it against the material of the mask. “I will be fear.”
“You're incredible, Jon,” Bruce grinned, “but I think I might have to report you to HR…” Jon let go of his hand, chuckling, he put his mask back in his desk drawer.
“Funny. Don't you have art therapy right now? Nurse Ratchet won't be happy you're late.”
Bruce blanched, “…Thanks, Crane.” Bruce turned for the door, the orange Arkham uniform crinkling as he moved. He twitched his fingers at the doctor, his wrist not moving enough for it to be considered a wave.
He left his friend's office quickly, the dim, white lights of the Arkham halls stretching out Bruce’s shadow. Ratchet will be sure force his anti-psychotics down his throat tonight.
*
None of them should have been surprised. The countdown had been ticking down ever since they first met.
She had pushed too hard, Bruce’s calm and collected facade snapping as soon as she uttered the words,
“You should have been the one that died, you freak.”
Bruce went for her throat first, the blunt edges of his nails clawing at her trachea. “You ugly, fucking bitch!” He let his beast talk for him, his body being possessed by his dark terror. His long, slender fingers wrapped in her short rust-colored hair, tearing strands out at the root.
“Don't fucking talk about them,” his voice dropped an octave, deep, harsh, growling, commanding.
Her screams rang in his ears, the rush was too consuming. His head came down, the CRACK of her nose providing an auditory cue for more adrenaline and rage to pump through his veins.
His arms reached for where her limp hands were resting, the pill bottle that was in her hands had rolled three-feet away when he had first reached for her. He took her fingers into his broad palm and flexed them up, the skin on her knuckles were stark white, if he just pushed a little more.
His monster flew around his body restlessly, “Break them!” It screeched in garbled tongues.
Bruce listened.
The snap of the bones sounded like gunshots in Bruce’s ears, resonating in his mind, the sound was perfect.
Her screams became more blood-curdling, guards rushing through the door.
Bruce’s wrists were clutched behind his back; the cool metal of handcuffs brought him down from his rage-induced high.
The reality of his actions crashed down on him, his own sobs causing his body to tremor and seize.
“Get up, Wayne!” the barrel of a gun resting on his temple, its threatening presence warning Bruce what would happen if he didn't obey.
He got up, legs trembling as he took a look at the nurse’s body, her hair and face was bloody, and her mangled fingers laid limply on the floor.
He shouldn't have felt as good as he did as the guards drug him off to solitary.
*
“Bruce.”
“Jonathan.”
Bruce stared blankly at his psychologist, he knew that this conversation would eventually come. The week in solitary allowed him to mull over his response. He didn't want to disappoint Jonathan or else some of his privileges would be revoked. He had already said goodbye to his hot showers for at least a week.
“Why did you attack that nurse?” Jonathan was leaning over his desk, his delicate features now hard lines forming a harsh, serious face.
“She told me that I should have died instead of my parents,” he rasped. His eyes stared into Jonathan’s gauging his reaction. Surely, he could sympathize with Bruce. That sentence would have initiated anger in anyone.
“Oh, Bruce…” Jonathan’s face softened, his hand shifted from its place on the desk to the top of Bruce’s hand, it was warm in contrast to the ever-constant AC blast the Arkham staff insisted on having.
“If only I would have known,” his thumb was subconsciously rubbing hearts into Bruce’s skin. “I’m sorry, Bruce, that's horrible, I’ll report her as soon as I can.”
Bruce nodded, “Thanks, Jon, that means so much to me,” he moved his hand on top of Jonathan’s patting it delicately. He smiled softly, “You don't even know how much you mean to me.”
The other man flushed lightly, the faintest blush coating the apples of his cheeks. He cleared his throat before slowly moving his back to its place on the desk, as if hesitant to pull away from Bruce’s touch.
After a minute of silence, the clink of Jonathan’s fountain pen and the rustling of his composition book’s pages rushed through Bruce’s senses. The doctor’s slender fingers were wrapped around the black metal of his pen, the ink forming beautiful, elegant shapes. From his place on the opposite side of the mahogany desk, Bruce could tell that it was a report of some kind, most likely noting the nurse’s threat against Bruce.
“Jon,” the man startled, ink from his pen swiped haphazardly across the page of paper, “thank you for listening to me today, but I promised Waylon I would help him set up group.”
“Y-y-yes, of course,” Jonathan’s stutter poked through his sentence. Bruce suspected it was an old habit from childhood. “I’ll see you later, I have to meet Falcone tonight anyway.”
“Alright,” Bruce steadied the other man’s hand, —ink was dripping off the nib of his fountain pen— he rubbed a half circle on the skin with his thumb before heading for the door. His muted orange Arkham jumpsuit flashed against the neutral tones of the room “Bye, Jon.”
He had already left the room when the other man let out a stuttered gasp, “…fuck.”
*
A few days later, Carmine Falcone was admitted into Arkham. Jonathan had taken time off, apparently, he had important things to take care of with his class. At least, that’s what Mick told him.
He had caught him in his cell reading Dante’s Inferno, the sound of the guard’s footsteps already letting him know it was Mick. Before the guard was finished shuffling through the cell door, Bruce called out, “Hey, Mick, how’s the wife and daughter?” The officer was surprised but answered that everything was good and his daughter was currently learning how to crawl. Hey moved closer to Bruce, “Hey, Wayne, I just wanted to let you know that Crane’s out for the next two weeks, professing thing, something about his class.” The guard’s black glove moved to a foot infeont of Bruce’s face, a white card held loosely in it.
“He wanted me to give you this, told me it was important for you to read,” Bruce reached out crasp the card between his fingers, the stationary was expensive and familiar, a reminder to call or write to Alfred when he was next able.
“Thanks, Mick,” the guard was turning to leave, “hey, it was nice to see you, tell Izzy I said hi,” Bruce smiled politely, his canines glinting in the light of his cell. Mick smiled back, knocking on the cell door twice before leaving.
Bruce directed his attention to the letter in his hand. He gently placed a bookmark in his book, closing it softly. His name was elegantly drawn on the front of the card, something so chareristacilly Jonathan. Bruce pulled the letter out of the envelope, the same graceful loops and lines covering the page.
Dear Bruce,
As you already know Carmine Falcone was recently admitted into Arkham, of course I’m sure you have already figured out that his insanity is fabricated. My fear toxin is becoming stronger, more impactful. Scarecrow has a lot of work to do on the streets regarding deals and getting things under my control. I’ll be back to see you soon, I promise. I’m getting whole news segments about my alleged plans! Engel and Vale don't know anything though. My plans go far deeper than what they are reporting. They don't know, but you do, Bruce. I know you understand.
Regards,
Jonathan Crane
And that was that.
*
Bruce’s thoughts flared. Intense thoughts of violence would overtake him doing the most mundane things. Visions so realistic he would have to pinch himself to come back to reality. He wanted to strangle the guard that stood at the end of the lunch line, wanted to see his face turn blue with lack of oxygen, wanted to watch the consciousness slip from his behind his eyes.
His mind reenacted the attack on the nurse when he was feeling especially empty. That, of course, would only lead to him sobbing, rocking himself back and forth on the cot in his cell, Dante’s Inferno forgotten on the floor.
God, he wanted to get the fuck out of here. Out of Bruce Wayne, out of that shell, his beast clawed and tore at his organs more often than not now.
He swore he could feel the bleeding.
Of course, Jonathan came back. Just like he promised. Dr. Crane wouldn't want to disappoint his patients, or Bruce.
He had told him that things were getting serious with Scarecrow, mass production of his fear toxin, creating toxin junkies, and getting involved with gangs. He was shaking when he told Bruce this. Bruce analyzed the other man as he was talking, he was scared, incredibly so. Not of getting caught or the gangs, but of something else.
A few months later the cops caught him. He was admitted to Arkham. A cell placed right next to Bruce’s. None of it surprised him. He knew that his friend would weasel himself back into power at some point.
Bruce thought as he read, that Jonathan most likely got caught on purpose, to protect himself. Bruce grinned, bright white teeth shining under the flickering LED in his cell. He knocked three times on his cell wall.
“Happy New Year, Jon! This year’s gonna be great!”
He heard a woeful sigh beyond his wall, “Bruce, you have no idea.”
summary: Bruce stared blankly into the crowded cafeteria. His skin was itching. His muscles crawling. Everything was empty. A hollow shell.
The news was playing on an old TV that hung in the left corner of the cafeteria, his oatmeal was left uneaten.
Bruce's rage flared more often than not now.
an: OMG YALL IM SO SORRY!!! this chapter was delayed six months and i am soso sorry! i had a lot of things going on with my family and just general life issues, anyway i hope this chapter makes up for it!
quick reminder that this fic is split in years so this is the 4th year part 1 as well as SCAREBAT IS A PLOT DEVICE OMG PLEASE GIVE MY FIC A CHANCE 😭😭
as always concrit is welcome and needed !!!
xx
YEAR FOUR —
Gotham was always clouded in an everlasting cold during the winter months. Her freezing heart would beat slower, a deep resonance of sadness and death flooding through the city. The feeling only made it colder.
It didn't help that Arkham’s AC was always blasting. Heat was only used in areas the staff would have to work in, cells and ‘patient’ areas would be left to the AC and Gotham frost.
So, Jonathan and Bruce were huddled together in a corner of the library. Jon’s smaller frame was pressed into his front, wavy, black hair fell across his broad shoulder as Jon shivered. The Arkham jumpsuits were not warm by any means, the material was thin and cheap, not anything like Jon’s too-long business attire or Bruce’s designer suits.
Bruce was used to the cold though, the ice lived inside of him ever since his parent's murder. The prisons only made him grow closer accustomed to it.
Jon hadn't experienced a cold like this.
Bruce wrapped his arms around his friend, squeezing tightly for a few seconds before letting go.
“What book are you thinking of picking out?” Bruce whispered lowly, his voice reverberating in his chest, Jon could feel the rumble through both of their jumpsuits and their skin.
The other man lifted his head from Bruce’s shoulder slowly, “I was thinking of reading Pale Fire, but that might be too dark, don't you think?”
“Jon, I’ll read whatever you want to read, this book is for you,” Bruce smiled at his friend, his hand cupping the other man’s jaw, “but I don't want that book to push you farther into depression.”
“I-i-i’m not depressed!” Jonathan retorted quickly, mouth agape as he stared into Bruce’s ice-blue eyes. “Jon, darling,” the doctor’s eyes flitted to Bruce’s lips as they started moving, “yes, you are.”
Bruce smiled solemnly, he could hardly feel bad for Jonathan. The man knew what he was getting into when he got himself caught. He worked at the goddamn place, he knew exactly how the prisoners were treated.
“Jon, tell me something,” Bruce paused briefly, “what are you scared of?”
The shorter man suddenly became serious, his mouth pressed into a tight line, he huffed shortly, his breath coming out hot onto Bruce’s jaw.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, dear. I am not scared of anything, I’m the Scarecrow, remember that?”
Jonathan smiled, before patting the taller man on the shoulder lightly, “Now! Let’s check this book out shall we?”
Bruce stared vacantly into his friend’s eyes, the Scarecrow was a crock of shit. He cared for Jonathan deeply but, god could that man be fucking egotistical.
Gotham hadn't seen a real villain. Not yet.
Scarecrow was close, but Bruce could feel that a force more powerful was lurking in Gotham’s dark alleyways.
*
Jonathan panted.
Hot, heavy breaths reverberated around the room. The cell was dark and stuffy, the smell almost overbearing.
His fingers were wrapped tightly around his cock, precum beading into perfect little pearls on his flushed tip.
Bruce had brushed him earlier that day. His palm just bearly grazing his dick above the layers of his stiff, orange Arkham regalia. His other hand rested delicately on Jonathan’s hip as he explained some unimportant topic about bats and a villain bound to appear in Gotham. It wasn't as interesting as the way his lips moved or the way his tongue would brush over his bottom lip every few seconds. Not nearly as important as the feeling of that broad palm, his skin left scalding hot in its wake.
He had been hard and leaking ever since.
His slender fingers moved faster over his shaft, meek little moans escaping from his plush lips.
“Ffffuckkk, Bruce…” his hips stuttered.
A finger slipped into his mouth, coating the skin with hot spit. His hand moved languidly behind himself, swirling around his rim before pushing in.
Another moan, higher pitched.
Absolutely pathetic.
His finger curled, searching desperately for that spot. His other hand moved faster over his cock. His finger finally found it.
Two moans and a gasp. Disgusting.
“...B-bruce,” his fingers wiped over his tip, spreading his precum over and down his shaft.
His walls squeezed tight and hot around his finger as it pushed in and out haphazardly. His hips stuttered again, pushing his dick through the cup of his hand.
“Oh, god,” his balls tightened. What a fucking weak bitch.
A mantra of Bruce filled his mind, everything about him was enrapturing. His chocolate brown hair, those ever-changing, murky blue eyes, his skin, smooth and flawless, his form— god, Jonathan didn't know how he kept up a physique like that in a fucking asylum— his mind, that beautiful, beautiful brain. Sometimes just looking at Bruce scared him to his core. There was a monstrous bat that lived beneath Bruce’s skin and it was evil. He could see it behind the muddy blues, see it clawing beneath his skin, he could feel it when they touched. Jonathan was terrified of Bruce, and the fear turned him on as much as everything about Bruce did.
He was hopelessly, pathetically, in love.
God, Jonathan craved him.
Everything was Bruce as he came, ropes of hot, white cum spraying onto his palm, coating his slender fingers and the starched orange jumpsuit.
What a pussy. Weak. A bitch for Bruce to use.
That was exactly what he was, Bruce’s bitch.
He just came harder.
Broken moans and gasps filled his cell, the smell of sex and cum taking over all of Jonathan's senses.
Goddamn.
Once his brain was no longer a puddle inside his skull, Jon noticed the cum that had sprayed across the bleak and depressing pages of Pale Fire.
How would he explain the stains?
*
Bruce panted.
His body quaked, breaths coming out ragged and short. Why wouldn't it leave him alone? Constant screeching, deafening and full of rage, sharp talons clawing at his guts, his bat, as Jonathan calls it, brewed and bubbled in his stomach acid.
Bruce was shaking, quivering underneath his jumpsuit. The thin material was coated with sweat and stuck to his back. His fingers twitched as they raked through his hair nervously, dirty fingernails mucking up his dark brown hair.
He muttered feverishly, “Bat… bat… bat… Mother… Father…”
The loud clang of his cell door pulled him from panic, a guard—not Mick, not one of the nicer guards in Arkham, not even Cash, he didn't know this guard— looked at Bruce through the visor on his helmet, ruddy brown eyes flicked to Bruce’s hands and wrists, scanning them for injuries.
“Get up,” the guard’s voice was deep and steady with a hint of a Cuban accent, calming Bruce’s nerves, if only momentarily. The presence of another person forcing his mind to switch into his playboy facade. Slowly, Bruce pushed up from the ground, the cold concrete grazing his flesh.
The guard was tall—even taller than Bruce, who was six foot— and built, intricate tattoos curling around his biceps in a bright green, vein-like. The green was a stark contrast to his tan skin, and as far as Bruce could tell, the tattoos covered the guard’s body, stretching over the expanse of his neck and stopping at his face.
The guard spoke again, “I’m Nathan Dorrance by the way, m’ friends call me Nate.” Black gloves wrapped loosely around Bruce’s left arm, steadying him so he could walk. “My name means ‘a gift from God’ but my father always said I was the bane of his existence”, the guard let go once Bruce was no longer shaking. “Will I be a gift or the bane of your existence?”
Bruce shifted his eyes—more gray than blue in the dim lighting— to the rust colored eyes of Nathan. “I doubt I’ll be that much trouble,” his lips curled into a tight smile, showing off stark white canines.
“Besides,” he laughed sarcastically, “I’m on new meds!”
The tattoos on the man’s neck seemed to pump with some fluid as his head tilted to the side.
“Then I’ll be a gift.”
“Is there something you needed me for?” He gritted out the sentence from between his teeth. The sweat that once covered him was now drying in the ever cold Arkham AC, it was uncomfortable and made his teeth clack together, he didn't know if he was shaking from the cold or from the meds.
Nathan spoke again, “Leland needs to see you.”
*
The led lights flickered outside of Leland’s office, the varnish on her mahogany door shined in the light, glaring into Bruce’s eyes if stared too hard for too long. Apparently Leland, though having called for Bruce, was busy with someone.
Officer Dorrance—Nathan, Bruce corrected himself— stood by him, arms crossed over his chest but he was calm and relaxed. His tattoos appeared to twitch every few minutes, it was probably just a side effect of the medication, Bruce thought.
A laugh rang out, cold and insincere, it was followed by a polite but equally biting chuckle. And then the shining mahogany door opened abruptly, the hinge creaking as it swung, and out walked Quincy Sharp. The old fuck was the warden of Arkham, but Bruce thought he should have been in a padded cell. He was just as crazy as the rest of them.
Leland’s hand was grasping the door tightly, her bright red nails contrasting against the dark wood, “Well, thank you for the visit Mr. Sharp! Pleasant as always.” She smiled, her teeth grinding slightly. Sharp waved, the heels of his dress shoes clacking against the floor as he waddled—really, he waddled, it reminded him of someone he always saw at his parent's parties— to the Arkham Mansion.
“Well, hi, Bruce, come on in,” Nathan tapped his shoulder lightly, signaling for Bruce to go inside.
Leland’s hand gestures for him to sit down on one of the chair’s that surrounded her desk—Bruce was considered low risk at the moment so he got the privilege of being able to sit and talk to the doctor’s inside their office instead of an interrogation style room. The chairs were plush, deep red velvet, they reminded Bruce a lot of the furniture in the library at the Manor.
The doctor swiftly made way to her desk, gracefully lowering herself into her chair, “So, I have a few questions for you,” she rustled around and grabbed a notepad and pen.
Bruce stared for a moment, blinking slowly, “Of course, what could I help you with Mrs. Leland?”
“I have a few questions for you about Jonathan Crane, the police want to see if any inmates knew of his villain persona the Scarecrow,” she looked at him momentarily, her deep brown eyes meeting his murky blues.
“I know you two are close,” Bruce nodded hesitantly, breathing out of his nose.
“I did not know of his activities if that is what you are asking, he never-” The doctor jotted down his statement quickly, her head raising to look at him again, “he didn't devolve into his life outside of work.”
He continued, “We bonded over literature,” his eyes followed her hand as it wrote, “that's why we were close.”
She nodded, her short, dark brown bob bouncing along with it. “Yes, thank you Mr. Wayne,”
She shifted her arms into a more comfortable position, leaning on the table slightly, “I am… aware you are both still very close, outside of a doctor-patient relationship, has he told you anything since then?”
Bruce shook his head, “We are friends, yes, but he has not told me anything about Scarecrow, I believe he is deeply ashamed if anything.”
Bruce could smell the doubt.
“Alright then, thank you Bruce,” she smiled, fakely Bruce noted. He twitched out a smile, wide and toothless. Nate came in and waited as he got out of the chair.
Bruce left, Nathan following shortly after, his tattoos shifting as he moved.
*
“Bruce?”
His eyes snapped open.
Jonathan’s wavy, dark hair hung over into his face cornflower eyes staring into his, wide and concerned.
“What?” Bruce rasped out, putting his broad hand on Jon’s skinny shoulder.
“You were zoning out,” his eyes were darting over Bruce’s face, searching for something. Ever the physiatrist, Jon was, he always needed an explanation.
“Darling, I’m fine, I’m just tired,” he moved his hands to cup Jon’s jaw, “I’m ok, I promise.”
Jon gasped lightly, not loud enough for Bruce to fully hear. But he could tell, Jon’s flushed cheeks, his pupils dilating, his quickened heart rate.
He knew.
“B-bruce…” Jonathan sighed out, slumping closer into Bruce's body
“Yes darling?” Bruce smiled warmly after he spoke, all sparkly canines.
“I- I think… are you sure you're ok?” Jon bit his bottom lip, eyes twinkling as they looked up at Bruce.
Bruce gnawed on the inside of his cheek before answering, “Yes, of course I’m okay, I always am when you're with me Jon… Was there anything you wanted to tell? I sensed hesitation.” He was polite of course, you had to be to get the reaction you wanted.
Jon whined, his fingers twiddling together. His slender hand went to move the book they were reading before Bruce zoned out to a more convenient location on the floor.
“I,” he looked down towards his lap and then back into Bruce's eyes, “I think I’m in love with you.”
“I know Jon,” Bruce leaned towards the smaller man’s face, teasing him. And then he kissed him.
Jon gasped, louder this time and into Bruce’s mouth, before going back in to kiss him again.
Pale Fire was forgotten on the floor.
*
It was unlike anything Jonathan could have ever imagined.
Bruce had kissed him so warmly, like a cup of perfect coffee in the cold bite of the Gotham winter.
It was unlike anything Jonathan could have ever wanted.
Beautiful, crazy, amazing, Bruce was his now, all his.
His cell felt warmer now, his mattress a little softer, the air a little clearer.
It was like his whole worldview was shifted.
Bruce was an enigma when Jonathan first met him. Ever polite and collected, despite just murdering a man in a courthouse. He had two years to think about his actions, but most people would still have some sort of emotion, unless they were sociopathic—which Bruce after much deliberation—was determinedly not.
He had to study him, it wasn't everyday that a “Prince of Gotham”—a notable title, no matter how odd it was to Jonathan—snapped, not like this anyway. Billionaires don't normally turn to murder to cope with trauma, cocaine and other illicit drugs is more likely, which is what fueled Jon’s interest.
There was something hiding behind those pale blue eyes.
Jonathan, ever the physiatrist at heart, needed to know what was plaguing Bruce’s mind, handsome faces like that needn't be so worried.
He was scared of something, something strange and monstrous. It wasn't tangible.
So, Jonathan dug his talons in and started digging.
After countless sessions and cups of coffee, he finally uncovered The Bat, a creature that Jon has yet to fully understand.
All he knew was that it was in Bruce, screeching at him, clawing its way through Bruce’s stomach lining trying to escape.
He was the most interesting person Jonathan had ever met.
As they got closer, bonding over similar childhood experiences (even if their childhoods were vastly different), Jon confided in him.
About Scarecrow. About the fear toxin. About the goal.
And Bruce understood. He got what Jonathan had been studying—independently, however—for years.
He knew the fear, he was interested in Scarecrow, interested in him.
So he fell in love, and Bruce loved him too.
*
Bruce stared blankly into the crowded cafeteria. His skin was itching. His muscles crawling.
Everything was empty. A hollow shell.
The news was playing on an old TV that hung in the left corner of the cafeteria, his oatmeal was left uneaten.
Bruce’s rage flared more often than not now.
His bat, his monster, was screaming inside him. He could feel the pulsating veins of Gotham, the scum that was emerging made her veins pump harder, faster. Bruce was invigorated. Gotham had been far too quiet since he had killed Joe Chill.
Even Scarecrow didn't take over Gotham in a cloud like Bruce did. Bruce was too perfect to be a villain, it caught everyone by surprise.
That was Jonathan's flaw, he was brilliant, but he was too predictable.
The news reporter’s tone suddenly changed, the monotone voice gone and now filled with shock.
“This just in! The Gotham National Bank has been robbed. There are a presumed five dead.”
Bruce looked over at the screen, as did the rest of the prisoners in the cafeteria. Most were shocked, some were unmoved.
Bruce was everything all at once.
The news station rolled footage found from the security cameras around the bank, most were deactivated, but cameras left in areas that would normally be turned were left on. Like the robber wanted the process to be seen.
Men in clown masks infiltrated the bank with extreme precision. Cut the alarms, one clown dead, control the crowd, people scream, mob ties, two clowns dead. A mistake, a clown and a mobster injured, break into the vault, three clowns dead.
A bus slams through the building, four clowns dead, the clown from the bus helps the remaining one load up and then he’s dead too.
And then the clown mask comes off, all toxic sludge green hair and grease paint.
Bruce’s heart twinged, his interest piqued. The man had grotesque scars that cut a mile wide smile from the corners of his lips far into his cheeks. Red lipstick was smeared across them and highlighted the scars for anyone that looked.
A gloved hand pulled out a grenade from his suit jacket and stuck it in the mob member’s mouth, a purple string pulled the pin of the grenade as the man climbed into the bus, the mobster’s muffled yelling and the rumble of the school bus were the only things heard as the gas released from the grenade.
Bruce was captivated.
As the footage cut out and the news reporter returned to the screen to ramble on a long dialogue discussing the plan of action against this new villain, the noise in the cafeteria buzzed loudly.
Some were impressed, others were jealous, and even more were terrified.
The TV had to be switched off after the reporter said an estimated 68 million was stolen from the bank, yells and hollers filled the cafeteria as Bruce went to leave.
He had to call Alfred.
*
The dialing tone was the only thing that filled Bruce’s ears as he waited.
Today, Gotham was changed.
The line clicked over.
“Master Bruce?”
Bruce shifted to lean against the metal divider between the phones and moved the phone closer to his mouth.
“Did you see the news today Alfred?”
After a few seconds the older man's British accent cut through the white noise of the phone, “Yes, I did Master Bruce, it was certainly… masterfully done, no matter the execution.”
Bruce smiled, genuinely, “He’s a genius.”
“How have you been, sir? I heard from Mrs. Leland a few weeks ago and she had an odd report.”
His smile dropped, “Did she ask you about Dr. Crane?” He laughed spitefully, “Yeah, we had that same discussion, I told her what I knew,” he moved himself off the divider, now serious, “she’s trying to look for something that isn't there.”
“Ok sir, I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” the butler sighed.
“Yeah, I’m alright, Alfred, things are looking up.”
“Soon enough I’ll have a smile on my face,” the brunette chucked, “I’ll call you again soon, Alfred, thank you for talking to me,”
