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myinternettrash · 8 months ago

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Cáncun [Chapter 2, Year 4, Part 1]

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 !!!

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,”

“Goodbye, Master Bruce.”

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