#Bruce Wayne x Joker

[bougiebutchbitch]

vigilante ending, take II

[toecrust69]

Y/n: why don't you trust me?

Damian: Because you think Instagram likes are more important than starting your own company and making money

Y/n: But it is!

Damian: Really?

Y/n: Yes!

Damian: Ok then, name someothing you can gain from Instagram likes

Y/n: Some bitches

[the-killing-bl0w]

I actually did it guys

Some of these are obviously better than others, please no one look at the lego one, I could not be bothered. I am sorry

[myinternettrash]

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.

[all-dead-rock-show]

deep in my heart, you're a part of me (ao3)

batman/the joker (batman - all media types, batman - comics)

"Joker opens his mouth to continue, but Batman quickly cuts him off. 'So, you admit that you convened with him in Arkham?'

Snorting, Joker lips stretch up into a wide smile. Convened. God. 'More like fucked in the staff locker room.'

That’s what got him."

Batman finds the Joker late at night to get some information on a case, but he gets some other information instead.

[thisislito]

Flat color on batjokes fanart done!

@sabaldax What do you think? Did I portray your Batman correctly or is there some things I could change? I hope you like it!

(Still have to do shading and background)

[orajess]

-"Why so grumpy ?"

He's angry because he enjoy it more than expected.

[edwardsissyhandsthtdanceslikeabb]

im high pls dont make me name my batjokes meta

this post may be implicit/common knowledge, but having not seen much discourse around the mechanics of batjokes' dynamic compels me to catalog. there's sm to unpack here, so excuse lapses in structure or flow.

first off and most importantly, joker's battle with bruce is an existential one, he wants to justify himself in the eyes of his maker, his reshaper, whose perpetual control and prowling enabled, and ultimately exposed, the failure of his veneer of heroism and ability/adeptness, and birthed a distillation of that failure. the failure to circumvent criminality and violence, continually indulging retaliative brutality and unresolved anger, edging catharsis in assuming a protective and dominant role as to compensate for his loss and pantomime vicarious past reclamation and authority. constantly stagnant, incessantly unfulfilled, an everlasting outburst if you will, addressing not his material conditions but feeding his metaphysical ones. joker moulds himself around bruce's worldview, concerning himself with the salvation eternally eluding bruce, achievable through the violence that birthed batman and reinvented joker in turn.

this is a dialectical affliction, one desperate in nature, to validate that he wasn’t a mistake, a deviancy, to prove that a singular, perhaps seemingly insignificant element can transform anyone, unchain them, and joker refuses alternatives because batman forever dances, is forever chained by both his insistence on normalcy, but also his neglect of it. joker wants foremost, to matter to his creator, to break perfunctory monotony and elicit true understanding and oneness, have his existence be purposeful and intentioned, proving himself worthy, the one that finally cracks the elusive figure and chiefly, achieves ordainment in the eyes of his saviour — embrace, his personhood returned to his creator’s hands as to ascend batman into godhood, inextricably coalescing them.

it’s a labour of love, devotion, joker truly loves THe BaTmaN, bleeds and lives and offers up gothamite sacrifices as to resuscitate his vacancy, bless him with unadulterated purpose, validate the meaningless of the earthly. ultimately, batjokes are cyclical, that: from ash you were birthed and to ash you shall return, sh1t. what confuses that however, is how dialectical they are (as aforementioned), they embody a yin & yang dynamic after all. however, ultimately, joker wants to birth the batman who laughs [like when you think about it — batman realizing joker's philosophy and transcending humanity], to eliminate bruce's restraint and contradictory morality as to, ironically, create a pure, militant reaper encompassing gotham's brutality and abandon. joker is fighting for gotham's soul in more ways than one, on the physical level — crippling its normative function, inundating it with senseless violence, and on a metaphysical level, fighting for its symbol of order and constraint, someone who arose as an abstract embodiment of gotham's institutional enforcement, a distillation of authoritative fear, gotham’s punitive restrictiveness, the abstraction of otherworldly, insurmountable power, an inverted reflection of the very thing bruce is and was unable to overcome, aiming to strip them of their defences as to coax their primality, a violent denuding as to be sculpted anew, the same enlightenment he was afforded. to be broken so thoroughly that you become pure. to shatter pretence and baptize gotham, or its seemingly intractable moral paragon, in hedonistic freedom, uniting them with his gory rebirth. and joker, with this hedonistic perspective, recognizes that capacity in batman, recognizes it as his truth as one who was born from that brutality and violence and continues to endure it, seeing it as the purest form of expression and the underlying nature of existence.

he glamorizes his own death at the hands of the one who rebirthed him bc it will rebirth his creator in turn, allowing him to fully embody his godhood. it will afford the joker true meaning — once again my metas coming back to the struggle for existence but universal themes gonna universe [with the melody] — however, bc of the dialectics of batjokes, the struggle is a testament to their bond, it’s a seduction, a courtship, its authenticity and potency dictated by scale and intensity (aka their Stockholm is mad), the commitment to enduring joker’s forcible conversions, and foremost, to joker martyring himself to batman’s perpetual aggrieved ministrations, the irony in trying to fix someone through cruelty, conflict everlasting in one’s subjugating machinations. the more joker seizes, the further his cost sinks. bruce becomes steadily entrapped with and by the one person who can never leave him, the magnitude of those around him continually strained against the joker, the onus to humanize a sadistic, inhumane murderer forever ballooning. joker’s mortality, his humanity becoming further pathologized, his undying ceaselessness a type of consolation, a mark on bruce’s own consciousness, to save the one person forever bound to him, justifying his heroism and the incongruity between them, the fundamentalist moral dividing them: do not kill. batman's consideration, thusly, is birthed from a deep resentment, the flagellation of abstinence, maintaining the one thing delineating human from unfeeling instrument [of violence]. that resentment festering into a neurotic sort of dependency, joker acting as his NorthStar of morality, subsuming his sense of self, entrancing and ensnaring him. without the joker, batman is slowly cannibalized, unable to exist. whatever, i’m tired. this better be good enough cause its going up either way.

to conclude, this song [pay for it by jeff and the mindful selfless chastites]

encompasses batjokes perfectly. the eternal struggle, the damned position and conundrum batjokes find themselves saddled with, their respective lives being their sort of penance, an inability to ever truly connect without eliminating the other, love transmorphed into a twisted, destructive passion disinterested in its untainted iteration and consequently further estranging them.

(there was another song too but i forgor 🤷🏿‍♂️ [AN: not bc i was high, i could not conceive of this high)

[femb0y-joker]

when you think about it...

joker is batman's

spicy manic pixie dream girl..

[chrispineisagoddess]

[Batman x Joker]

Somewhere Between Love And Abuse

By Saremina

Read here

a better summary would be Joker is just so mentally unstable and Bruce Wayne is just trying to keep it together, he’s also too in love that he literally does not give a shit about what Joker does 😭💀 you don’t know whether to feel bad for him or not. There’s a 2nd part which I don’t remember being there so I’m about to go read that.

[bougiebutchbitch]

Desperately gnawing on the concept of a universe-swap fic where Batman winds up with Jokester and Joker winds up with Owlman...

CN: violence, smut, violent smut insinuated, dubcon insinuated

Batman doesn’t trust Jokester at first - how can he? But the more he learns about the other universe and his counterpart, the more he understands. The more he believes. The more he starts to let himself feel what he’s never allowed himself to feel.

After all, is Jokester not what he’s always searched for? A light within the monstrous dark; a beacon of hope on which Batman has burnt himself so many times, he’s almost given up and doused the flames? A sign that not even the Joker is irredeemable in every iteration of this world?

But if that’s true, then the Owlman must be a sign that Batman is far from uncorruptable, too.

Jokester is as much of a flirt as the man he replaced, albeit with significantly less blood on his hands. He teases, he pushes. Batman can’t help but fall.

Far away, in another world, Joker gnaws his cheeks raw and gnashes his teeth, because he knows - he just knows - that his Bat would love that snivelling, pathetic, defanged version of himself, who gets all squeamish about murder and maiming and - ugh, oh, isn’t he just an embarrassment to every other Joker in the multiverse?

Why, the thought that his first time with the Bat might be stolen by that purple-haired little trollop is almost as offensive as it’s hilarious.

But if Batman is honking the wrong clown’s horn, why shouldn’t Joker have some fun of his own, huh? Especially since the big, bad Bat - no, Owl - of this world really puts the emphasis on the ‘bad’. He doesn’t bother with all those silly silly morals that hold Joker and Batman apart. He rules Gotham with an iron fist, and Joker can’t wait to get it around his throat. 

#

And thus, for a while, on both sides of the divide, everything feels exactly as it should be.

But it’s not long before the cracks begin to show.

#

Batman buries his fingers in purple hair when he kisses his partner at the end of each patrol. He feels the soft curls tangling in the heavy, armoured joints of his gloves, the warmth of the mouth against his, the acid scars and the strange, mutated smoothness of Jokester’s skin. And every time, he shuts his eyes and tries not to think of green.

#

One night, hungry for a dance, Joker nicks a bunch of chemicals from the mansion’s bathroom and blows one wing of the house sky-high. But when the caped crusader of Gotham pummels him into the floor (and then the bed) in punishment, mouth tight with fury under his cowl, his cloak is white, not black.

When Joker calls him Brucie, Owlman sneers and tells him Bruce Wayne is dead. A heavy collar clicks shut around Joker’s neck as he laughs and laughs and laughs until it’s almost screaming.

#

One night, Jokester takes Batman up to the roof of the tallest skyscraper in Gotham - one of Wayne Enterprises’, of course. He gazes out over a cityscape so familiar, yet so different. So twisted in such alien ways.

“Well,” he says, in that acid-scratch voice, like he’s been gargling with bleach. “This has been swell, partner. 10/10 on Trip Advisor, for sure. But it’s been a long staycation, and I’m not the only one who’s been thinking of home, sweet home.”

Bruce’s brows furrow beneath the cowl until they match Batman’s permanent black rubber frown. “What do you mean? This is my home, right here.”

The look Jokester shoots him is rather too knowing. For a moment, in the distorted glare of the reflected city lights, his green jacket almost looks purple.

Bruce’s tongue works dryly against his throat as he swallows. “It could be your home, too.”

Jokester pats his cheek, drawing back along the thin ledge that separates the roof from the empty night sky. “I bet you say that to all the clowns...”

“I’m serious. You don’t have to go back.”

Gotham - his Gotham - is so much better now. No more Joker gas. No more regular mass-murders or breakouts from Arkham. No more monthly birthday presents.

Batman still feels that strange tightening in his abdomen when the end of the month approaches. He used to think it was worry about what mayhem Joker would wreak next.

Now he’s not so sure.

“What about my world?” the Jokester wants to know. “Ol’ Owlie’s gonna find plenty of entertainment with my worse half, for sure - but just think of the mess I’ll have to clean when I get back!” He flashes his dark-painted nails. “This manicure is not made for housework, I’m afraid.”

Batman reaches out, but Jokester dances away so his hand closes on air rather than his arm, windmilling his arms with pantomimed clumsiness, the toes of his dress shoes slipping against the roof’s edge, like he couldn’t balance along a tightrope as easily as Selina.

“I don’t want you to go back.”

Jokester goes still, balance perfect despite his ungainly pose, then slowly resettles on the balls of his feet, hands dropping to his sides. His face is all familiar marble lines. Bruce knows them so well he could sculpt him with his eyes shut - but he’s never seen this particular expression on his Joker.

Regret.

“I want to go back,” he murmurs, and it strikes Batman suddenly, guiltily, that maybe he isn’t the only one who’s bit his tongue at the point of climax to keep the wrong name from spilling out.

There’s little more to say, after that. Perhaps Bruce should fight harder to convince Jokester to say. He should definitely fight harder to convince himself that’s the outcome he wants.

But he doesn’t.

#

He takes the world-swap project off hold, and within a week he has a working prototype. He kisses Jokester one last time, as they wait for the machine to power up. It’s a goodbye. It’s a thank you. It’s a silent, soft understanding - one neither of them will get from anyone else (already, the rest of the Batfam, who had grudgingly begun to welcome a purple-haired clown at their table, have evacuated the house and fled for their respective corners of the city).

Batman will miss them. Hell, he’ll miss him. As he curls his arms around Jokester’s body - the body he’s sending back to face a version of himself built from Bruce’s deepest desires and his compounded nightmares - tilting him back, deepening the kiss, he wonders if he’s making the worst mistake of his life.

But then, his mouth fills with the hot wash of blood. The spidery hands on his shoulders tense into claws, nails scraping sharp across the Kevlar plates. The machine’s hum reaches its crescendo. The lights flicker, then dim. Sparks burst from a console; something, somewhere, goes Zzzzzzp. The world tilts ten degrees starboard, then realigns like it’s settling after a wave, and the clown in Bruce’s embrace is suddenly all edges rather than soft compliance.

There’s a moment where that thin, rangy form winds tight like he might bolt or bite. But he only draws back far enough to slap Bruce across the face. Hard.

Bruce jerks, pain exploding through his right ear. “Ow?”

“Ow?” Joker rages. “Ow? Took you long enough! What’s the matter - you decided you prefer the grape flavor, over lime?”

He looks incredible. Vicious green eyes and knife-sharp bones and fists balled so tight at his sides they very-almost quiver. The springy curls wrapped around the fingers of Batman’s gauntlets are green. As they’re supposed to be.

He also looks terrible. Black eyes, hunched posture like he’s cracked a rib or five. Bruises everywhere Batman can see. Blood, too. Clothes in tatters, his acrid scent muddied with burnt mortar and singed hair. Like he’s been running, fighting, running again, for a very long time. Chased and caught and chased and caught over and over, a mouse beneath the paw of a cat.

Just like he’s always wanted, right? A nemesis who loves the dance as much as he.

“I honestly figured you were enjoying yourself,” Batman admits.

Joker huffs, crossing his spindly arms. “I was. Other-you - although he’s not other-you for your flesh mask, by the way? Just to make things more confusing! He’s a riot. Same stoic straight-man to my clowning routine. Same willingness to demonstrate that straight-man really ain’t the best description. But he’s completely absent of a moral compass! No more Joker, you can’t do that, or Joker, stop before you hurt anyone else, or Joker, won’t you think of the children?” Joker clasps his hands to his chest with a dreamy sigh. “Oh, why would I ever want to leave?”

Why indeed?

Batman’s gaze clings to the white metal collar wrapping Joker’s neck. He’s never gone quite that far before. Just as Joker hadn’t gone quite as far with him as Jokester had - straddling Bruce on the mussed sheets of his penthouse King-Size, riding him fast then slow. Panting, whining, dragging Bruce’s hand to feel that slick, hot, perfect point of connection where he stretched his clown out on his cock. Leaning forward to catch him in a kiss, purple curls tickling Bruce’s cheeks...

Batman tries not to dwell on that. Like he tries not to dwell on the nauseating coil of hot and cold, intrigue and repulsion, that wraps as tightly around his guts as that collar on Joker’s throat.

“Sometimes,” he says, as the lights slowly buzz back to full, illuminating the interior of one of the many abandoned warehouses at the edge of the docks, “we get what we wished for. Only to realize...”

He trails off, unsure how to finish. But Joker breaks into a beam that has no right to look so gleeful, with so much blood caked to his face. Although, at a closer look, Batman reckons only half of it’s his.

Joker left a scar on his counterpart. The thought sparks a strange marriage of envy and pride.

“That what we wanted was right beside us all along?” Joker chirps, batting his eyelashes. “My, Mr Batman B. Wayne! Is this where you get down on one knee?” He holds out one slender hand, like he’s showing off a ring. Or the knot at the knuckle of his ring finger, where the bone has been pulled from the joint and twisted abnormally to the side, no doubt while escaping cuffs. “Pick any stone but amethyst.”

Batman still doesn’t know if he’s walking the right path. Should he have insisted that Jokester stay for Gotham’s sake, while letting the other world burn? Or just that the Jokester stay for his own sake, so he won’t be delivered into the waiting arms of a monster like the Owlman?

But Batman’s monster is right here.

“I’m taking you back to Arkham,” he says, burying his fist in Joker’s collar, tugging him out the warehouse and towards the idling car. Then, when Joker pouts - evidently too injured, too exhausted, to put up much of a fight - “After we visit the cave, and get that thing off your neck.”

That perks Joker up; he trots the rest of the way to the car and plonks himself in the passenger seat while Batman enables the prisoner controls. Once there, he leans back against the headrest, stretching out the long, lean line of his throat. His skin is rudely white against the shadows. Like something cut from paper, or bone.

“Why? Wanna replace it with one of your own?”

He laughs when Batman fumbles the wrong button, sending out a loud blare of police radio static. The cackle is high and ugly and utterly, inescapably him.

Batman basks in it. Then he slams the correct button, tough fabric restraints wrapping around Joker’s chest and pinning him tight to the chair. He settles into the driver’s seat while Joker’s still sniggering and roars away as the warehouse bursts into flame, erasing all evidence of their collision between worlds - except that which lives on in the memories of one bat, one owl, and two clowns.

[batjokewholaughs]

Sounds of Fun and Freedom: Batman x Joker

Word count: 14,538 (2 chapters, completed)

Summary: Two years ago they went to an amusement park, but skipped the waterpark. This year, Joker wants to get in the water. All Bruce can see is all of the ways it could go wrong. This is a bad idea. Problem is, he has a hard time saying no when Joker gets this look, this look reserved only for the park. And maybe he wants to go back, too. A sequel to For The Sake of Laughter but 100% readable on its own. Part two of the Amusement Mile series.

Tags: established relationship, fluff, feelgood, amusement parks, theme parks, water parks, water park date, Bruce is smitten, romantic fluff, romantic comedy

Warnings: homophobia from a 3rd party, chapter 2 has gore and violence

AO3 Link (archive locked): https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341742

[hauntingrabbits]

comic

[the-killing-bl0w]

Happy holidays from Batman and Joker

"-and a partridge in a pear tree!"

Time to play Arkham Origins, the least hetero game ever made.

[myinternettrash]

Cáncun [Chapter 1, Years 1-3]

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.”

END YEAR 3

[trianglegoddess]

Feral McGee™

It starts with the Joker. 

His goons picked up Tim Drake. Not specifically because it was Tim Drake, he just so happened to be in the Joker’s neighborhood, and we'll, he can't pass up that opportunity now can he? 

Except Tim Drake is watching, along with the rest of Gotham, at the Batcomputer. He’s nursing a broken foot and has been put on monitor duty until he's cleared for field work again. 

The guy looks enough like him, though. Black hair, blue eyes, and bags under his eyes for days. He's also got the same lean sort of build like he does. 

It happens like this. 

The Joker is doing his monologue thing where he explains whatever twisted game he's come up with this time. He takes up the majority of the screen, so nobody can see Not-Tim behind him, not until the big reveal. Then he covers the screen again, getting up close and personal, before stepping back. In those quick few seconds, Not-Tim is no longer sitting there tied to the chair. 

Someone off camera lets the Joker know, and he whirls around, confused as the rest of Gotham. 

And then Not-Tim comes in with the steel chair. 

Or, well, a crowbar, but the reference holds up. 

He takes out one of Joker’s knees before punching him in the face. The Joker drops like a bag of stones, out cold. 

Then he looks towards the camera. 

“Hey there. I'm not really sure where I am, but also if he was after Tim Drake, he got the wrong guy. I'm not him, I'm just some dude. Anyway, I'll just-yep-” he carefully steps over the unconscious Joker, gives the camera a little wave, and then leaves. 

Batman and Nightwing enter shortly after, with the Joker and his goons out cold and tied up. The knots were complicated enough where, in the end, the police resorted to cutting the ties off of them so they could be properly cuffed and taken to Arkham. 

“A constrictor knot,” Batman tells Nightwing as they watch the villain be taken away. “Often used by sailors to temporarily tie things together to keep something in a bag, or to hold something to glue it back together.”

“Huh,” Nightwing says, scratching the back of his head. “Go figure.”

—

The next time it happens, it’s the Riddler. 

He’s laughing, giving his riddles to the Bats and recording himself to all of Gotham while his victim, one of the Wayne brats, hangs over a vat of something. From a distance, he looks like Tim Drake, or maybe a lankier Dick Grayson. And he’s not the only victim, they’re all scattered across the city, but he thought an important figure such as a Wayne should be under the Riddler’s direct supervision while he enacts his schemes. 

While the Riddler cackles and plots and waves his cane around, in the background all of Gotham can see the figure escape. Several Gothamites recognize him as the kid from before, who clocked the Joker. They all watch with bated breath as he sort of wiggles his way out of the ropes holding him up. Once he’s free, he climbs the rope and gets himself down safely. 

Gotham holds their breath as the kid casually walks up to the Riddler, who’s mid-rant. He politely taps him on the shoulder, and as the Riddler is turning around, the kid clocks him just as brutally as he had the Joker. He’s down with one punch. 

They think he’s going to say another sort of awkward goodbye, but instead he pats the Riddler down until he finds a piece of paper tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. 

“Right,” the kid says, looking at the list. There’s a lot more static overlay now, and several wonder if it’s damage to the cameras. “Uh, the Clocktower, the Docks, and-” he squints at the page for a moment-”Mama Nacaroni’s? What the fuck is that? Anyway, uh. See you later, I guess. Oh! And we’re at the Gotham Arena. Have fun with him, I guess.”

The kid tosses the paper off to the side before the camera cuts to black. 

Just like last time, everyone is out cold and tied up. The Riddler himself is sporting a pretty bad shiner, but well deserved nonetheless. 

“Stop it,” Red Hood tells him. Batman just looks at him, and though Hood can’t see the top half of his face, he can tell that his eyebrow is raised. “You know exactly what I mean, B. Put the adoption papers away.”

“Hn.”

—

After that, it sorta becomes a game. The rogues of Gotham are no longer after a Wayne, or after anybody who holds any kind of social status like usual. They’re all going after this one kid, all determined to be the one to hold him. And each one is televised. 

Mr. Freeze freezes him in a block of ice, but due to the cameras glitching out, nobody can really see how he got free. They do, however, see the kid suplex Mr. Freeze. It should seem impossible, given his lanky figure, but he evidently has more muscle than he’s originally let on. 

Two-Face gets a hold of him, using chains and some power-dampening cuffs just on the off-chance that he’s a meta. They all watch as the kid leans down, pulls a bobby pin out of his hair, and picks the locks on his cuffs. One punch, and Two-Face is down. 

Gothamites are going wild for the kid. They’ve dubbed him Feral McGee™ (an online poll, of course), because every time he goes in for the punch he gets this feral look in his eyes. Also, just the fact that he casually goes up to these rogues and takes them out with all the casualness of doing something incredibly mundane? Incredible. The Gothamites are eating it up. However, despite the video evidence, nobody has been able to properly identify the kid. They know he has black hair and bright eyes, but any time he gets near a camera, it’s like there’s this weird, sort of warped quality the camera takes on. It doesn’t usually calm down until the fight is done-as one sided as they usually are-before he awkwardly skedaddles away.  

He gets kidnapped by the Penguin, Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy (though that was more just a friendly chat than anything), Mad Hatter, and the Riddler again. 

And then the Joker escapes. 

It’s no surprise as to who he’s going to go after. 

Due to one too many careless goons, they manage to find their way to the Joker’s hideout pretty quickly. This time, it’s all Bats on deck, and they all hide away in the rafters as Feral McGee™ is hung over a vat of acid. His whole body is tied up, hardly a single inch of exposed skin to be seen except for the neck up. 

They watch the goons, they watch the Joker, and they watch Feral McGee™. 

The Joker is monologuing, practically begging the bats to come find him before the timer runs out. When it does, the kid gets dumped into the vat of acid. 

Despite these stakes, the kid seems to be only mildly annoyed. 

“Fuck this, I have homework I still need to finish,” they hear him say. 

They all watch, amazed and confused, as the kid starts gnawing through the ropes. Human teeth shouldn’t be able to do that so easily, but one bit after the other, and soon enough the kid’s got himself freed enough to just climb up the rest of the rope. When he’s at the top of the crane holding him up, Batman lets down a rope and pulls the kid up and out of danger. 

“Oh, cool, you’re all here,” the kid says casually, as if meeting the entire Bat Clan is just a normal Tuesday. And then he pulls out a notepad and pen and hands it to Red Hood. 

“Can I get an autograph? You’re dope as fuck, dude.”

Red Hood has to look away and hide his face in his arms for a few moments to not give away their location with his laughter before signing. And then, one by one, the others do as well. They pass along the kid’s notebook with shit-eating grins and barely contained snickers despite the fact that the Joker is still right below them. Even Batman signs it, after his children don’t stop hounding him about it. 

In their distraction, they didn’t see the kid sneak away. He’s far away from them now, nearly right over the Joker. Danny waits, though, until the Joker has turned around as the timer almost runs out. They watch as he snickers at Joker’s flabbergasted look. The Joker comically looks back and forth and under objects the kid obviously isn’t under. However, before he can do or say anything else, the kid drops from the rafters and right on top of the Joker. He crumples to the ground, unconscious. The kid, however, just brushes the dust off of himself. Despite the fall he took, there isn’t a scratch on him. 

When the bats join him, they give his notepad back to him, barely able to contain their laughter at the absurdity of it all. The kid, too, joins in the camaraderie, laughing and joking along with them as Batman secures the Joker. 

“Okay, okay, but I gotta ask, dude,” Red Hood says at one point, looking at the kid. “How do you keep getting kidnapped?”

The kid just shrugs. “I get distracted easily. And I’m sleep deprived, so you know. Social awareness is kind of at an all time low right now.”

“Why are you sleep deprived?” Nightwing asks, barely hidden concern in his voice. 

 “Finals are kinda kicking my ass right now. Especially this dumb English homework I have. You guys wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Oh, lucky for you,” Red Hood says, wrapping an arm around the kid’s shoulders as he walks them out of the warehouse, “I happen to know a lot about English. So, it is Shakespeare?”

“Yeah, Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

As they walk off, Batman calmly watches, though the rest of the bats can see his jaw twitching. Nightwing comes up behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“If you don’t adopt him, I will.”

“Hn.”