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queerbaitingjuce · 6 years ago

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Metamorph - Chapter 3 - Part 2

“Yes,” Bruce agreed, staring distantly into his coffee. “Yes, it is.” He turned to face him, nursing his hot cup. “It’s my fault.”

Alfred frowned at him disapprovingly. “Now, whatever gave you that impression, Master Bruce?”

“He’s doing this because of me,” babbled Bruce guiltily, uncharacteristically. “He said he wants to show me how I hurt him. The people that died in the arson attacks, the woman... they’re dead because of something that I did to him. And it eats me inside, and I can’t find the person or the words to let it out.”

Alfred adjusted his glasses, looking stern. “You have no evidence to suggest that you did anything as of now, Master Bruce,” he said. “So blaming yourself and getting all worked up is foolish. If you start thinking like that, then you’ve let him win. He wants you to feel terrible. Don’t feed into his desires with distress.”

Bruce took a long sip of his coffee. It burned his mouth. He didn’t care. “You’re right,” he conceded, swallowing his distress to be replaced with a spark of resolve. “It’s just been a long day.”

“Maybe it’s time to retire?” Alfred suggested.

“I can’t. I found plenty of evidence that needs analysing immediately. He keeps killing. I don’t have any time to waste, Al.” Bruce sighed, taking another sip of coffee. Caffeine zipped in his nerves, but he was so exhausted it barely made a difference at all. “You can go to bed if you want. It’s late.”

Alfred shook his head. “Maybe it would be wise to contact Miss Kyle and ask her for her assistance in this case. She’d make a useful ally, what with her abilities.”

Bruce sighed impatiently. “Alfred, Selina and I are on bad terms,” he pointed out, taking a larger gulp of coffee to bide his time. Selina was a touchy subject; they, at this point, had a mutual disrespect for each other.

“Master Bruce, I know how you feel about each other-”

“I don’t feel anything for her,” said Bruce firmly. “She was a friend once – if that – but I have never had any romantic feelings for her.” He added sternly, “And I didn’t sleep with her that time in her apartment, no matter what Harvey said.”

Alfred blinked in surprise. “Master Bruce-”

“Sorry, Alfred.” Bruce rubbed his eyes with his hand, torrents of frustration intensifying his exhaustion. “It’s just frustrating that everyone always claims there’s a romantic bond between us – you, John, Gordon. And there isn’t.”

“I understand,” Alfred said. “My apologies, sir. I saw Master John head out into the garden,” he told him evasively. “He looked forlorn. I dare say he needs some company right now. You can join him while I analyse the evidence.”

Bruce could have hugged him. But he didn’t. He only said, “Thanks, Al.” He finished his coffee and put his cup in the sink with a clatter.

“Oh, and take this with you,” said Alfred, holding out an expensive, imported bottle of red wine.

Bruce was surprised, because this was Alfred, and Alfred liked to store the wine he bought for special occasions, not the odd drink on a glum October night. “Are you sure?”

“Well, we’ve run out of whiskey, and this is the next best thing...” Alfred’s face softened imperceptibly. “Trust me. He needs a drink right now. And so do you. So go. I’ll take over in the cave.”

“Thank you, Al.”

“Take some teacups. Dreadfully, all the wine glasses need washing.”

Bruce took the mugs and the wine outside, where John was sat on the rim of the new instated fountain, his feet in the water. As he came closer, basking in the quietness and the fresh chilly breeze of Gotham’s nighttime, John sighed, and it was true – he looked desperately forlorn. Bruce kicked off his shoes, and, without a second thought, he sat on the edge of the fountain and dug his feet in, consumed in his company. The water was cold, cold enough to shock his skin. The air was heady with the smell of tequila, and sat next to John, on the fountain, was a refilled wine glass of it.

“I brought wine,” he said awkwardly, because what else was there to say? He suddenly envied Alfred’s eloquence; Alfred, who was always composed; Alfred, who always knew what to say. He wished he knew what to say, because he ached sweetly to comfort him. The ache shocked him, honestly; he, never in a thousand years, would have thought he’d genuinely care so vehemently about John Doe, not now, not ever. He’d never experienced an ache this strongly for a person, either; not anyone outside of family, anyway. Well, except for maybe Harvey, but he’d been his best friend once; of course Bruce had cared for him. He still did, in a more distant kind of way.

He supposed it had only been a matter of time before he’d let John wholeheartedly into his heart. Despite the dastardly Joker episode, John was a sweet soul. Curious. Excitable. Caring. Selfless. Sick – regretfully sick. There was something undeniably loveable about John Doe, though, something his sickness couldn’t take from him. Bruce would have been heartless to not adore his swelling, warm soul eventually.

John stopped staring miserably at his own reflection, and looked at the mugs perched on the fountain. He looked puzzled. “Are they... mugs?”

“Ah, well... yes.” Bruce stared accusingly at the mugs, wanting them to disappear. “The wine glasses were all in the sink.”

John stared at him for a long moment... and then threw his head back and laughed.

Bruce was perplexed. “What?”

“Oh, buddy!” he howled, wiping hysterical tears from his eyes. “I just can’t stay miserable around you!” He smiled at him. “Bruce Wayne, drinking wine from a mug... I never thought I’d see the day.”

Bruce peeled the metallic film off the top of the wine bottle and opened it, inhaling the sweet-bitter smell of the wine. It smelt familiar; of nights in his office, and the cave, drinking from wine glasses; of galas, and dancers whisking into each other as he drank; of his parents’ breath as they laughed during parties; and he inhaled it boldly until he could practically taste it, serving it into the mugs expertly. “Why not?” he asked, a little defensively.

“Because,” said John laughingly, “drinking wine from mugs is practised by middle-aged mothers who break out the cheap wine while their kids are in bed!” He gave a pause, his smile ebbing. “Well... they do in movies, anyway.”

Bruce shrugged, and picked up his mug. “It doesn’t matter what cup it’s in,” he rejoined to quell his embarrassment. “It still tastes good either way.”

“True that! Hey, I’ll drink to that!” John laughed, picking up his mug and knocking it against his clumsily. Wine sloshed out of it, but John didn’t seem to notice. His breath was bitter with tequila.

They both drank. The wine was lovely, and the air smelt of it, tart and warm, and the water felt warmer now that he was getting used to it. He wiggled his toes and sighed, exhausted but, for once, content. They sank into a companionable silence for a short while, enjoying their wine and the scenery: the cropped garden, carefully tamed; the groomed roses, the shaped bushes, what lay beyond the manor’s supreme gates. And then Bruce felt inclined to ask something, because, really, what friend would he be if he didn’t? A bad one, and the point of them working together was to prove he could be a good friend – if John returned it with equal dedication.

“John?”

“Yes, bud?”

“Something... earlier...” No. That was the wrong way around. Bruce thought for a long while, planning his sentence before he said it. “Earlier, in the house, something was clearly bothering you. I mean, more than... you know... seeing the woman did.”

John sighed, looking like a deflated party balloon. “Got it in one, buddy,” he said glumly. “But why are you bringing it up?”

“I just wanted to... check in, I guess?” And then he scolded himself for making it sound like a question, but John didn’t seem to blink twice. “I mean, I wanted to check in.”

John took a deep drink from his mug, smiling at him patiently. “Well,” he said softly, “thanks for doing that, buddy. I know that doing that is outside of your comfort zone.”

Bruce embraced the smile, tentatively returning it, even though it felt a little forced. He drank a bit more wine, letting the alcohol warm him on the inside, and waited for him to talk... if he talked at all.

“Well... I don’t know, buddy... It’s hard to explain.”

“Take your time, John,” Bruce encouraged quietly.

“I guess I just... I saw your face when you saw her. That moment before you covered it up, the moment you really saw her for the first time, the moment where the invulnerability disappeared. And I hated it. I hated that face in indescribable ways, buddy...” John paused, overcome, and started doing his breathing exercises.

Bruce patiently waited, finishing his mug off. He refilled it, the splash of the wine hitting the bottom of the mug sounding exaggerated in the silence, while he thought about what John had said. He didn’t have a lot of thinking time.

“I’ve killed people, too, buddy.” John grimaced. “The agents... among other people. Some of them to hurt you, just like he’s doing.” He looked down into his drink, his expression tinged by remorse. “You spoke about the killer like he was a monster. And I can’t help but think that, while you had that face, and spoke in that voice, I’d done what he had done. But you forgave me.” He shook his head. “I don’t deserve that.” He looked at him sideways. “I’m just like him.”

“You’re nothing like him.” Bruce knew there were similarities, the drive to kill people for the sake of getting to him, the gory violence – but John was different. He knew that; he believed in that. So he believed his own words as they came out his mouth. “This man, he is faulted and cruel. You’re...” He paused, uncomfortable, but John was looking at him expectantly, and he felt inclined to press on. “You’re, you know... kind. Selfless. Playful. Enlightening. Loving. John. And people like him? They don’t understand that, much less how to be that.”

John frowned. Bruce thought he looked lovely in the ribbon of moonlight, and the thought made him feel woozy and confused. Or maybe that was the wine... “I just feel like I don’t deserve to be part of this investigation as your sidekick,” he sighed.

“You said you wanted to help me. Have you changed your mind?”

“No, not at all!” John held up his hands. “Geez, buddy, who do you think I am? Working with Batman, it’s been an honour!”

“But...?”

#batjokes #telltale batjokes #juce #telltale juce #brucexjohn #johnxbruce #jokerxbatman #batmanxjoker #batjokes fanfiction #juce fanfiction

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queerbaitingjuce · 6 years ago

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Metamorph - Chapter 2 - Part One

((If you want to read it on Archive Of Our Own, here's the link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817548/chapters/37052751))

August, 27 – 8.02pm

John, it’s Bruce. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your call; I was working on... something. Where are you? Are you safe?

‘Where are you hiding? Are you getting into trouble?’

August, 28 – 10.38am

Hey, John. I don’t know if you’re getting these messages, but when and if you do, can you call me back? Or at least pick up the phone?

‘You need to contact me so I know you haven’t gone back on our agreement.’

August, 28 – 6.56pm

John, you know you can stay with me, right? I have over 100 guest bedrooms. I wanted to ask you before, but... Never mind. Do you have somewhere else to go? Call me back.

‘I need to keep an eye on you.’

Sitting on a roof, a shattered brown slant like the slope of naked hill, in the putrescent heart of Gotham, John listened to the voicemails Bruce had left on his phone over the past two days, reading what he perceived to be between the lines as he practically whitened (more) with irascibility – his eyes seemed to unattractively bulge against the colour of his skin, he saw disinterestedly; he was looking lividly into a spreading rain puddle expanding next to him, groping desperately for his already chilled, nerveless fingers. His knuckles popped as he clenched his hand around his phone, thinking involuntarily about how he had always compared Bruce’s eyes to water painted by moonlight, or rain splashed against an oval of pavement: they were silver and rippling, and he always managed to drown in them. He turned away from the thought now – and, as he literally turned, saw a dark figure, hunched against the rain, sliding his way through the street, looking like an ink-dot in the near distance. John could see he was willowy and dressed finely, all gilded buttons and expensive black material, and he felt a pang. It was Bruce; he knew it was; he was as familiar as the back of his hand; John had a violent flashback to the first time he’d observed the way Bruce walked, all trained grace despite his height and muscle. He had a knack for showing up whenever John was pensive about him, like he was now, typically when he was troubled and the sight of him crumpled his insides like deflated balloons.

Part of him wanted to run up to him and throw his arms around him with buckling enthusiasm – he wondered if he smelt good in the rain. He’d only held his best friend once what felt like an eternity ago, and it had felt as good as he’d always thought it would, even if the gesture had been somewhat brief and somewhat one-sided. Bruce’s heartbeat was the most steady thing in John’s life – slow, rhythmic, strong, powering on like a great race horse. But he wouldn’t and couldn’t, not while he was still a temple for this rotten rage inside him. He was always unpredictable when he was like this; this was the same irrational rage he’d schlepped during his brief time as The Joker, revived from an ember of anger that had been caused by something, quite frankly, not worth a killing spree over, that had inexplicably smouldered into a flame he couldn’t control.

I can’t lose control again. He’d never forgive me. There has to be an explanation for this – insecurity, just like before.

John told himself this vehemently as he dropped from the roof, jarring his knees. If Bruce heard, who was a respective distance away, he didn’t turn. The rain was shedding ruthlessly on Gotham, like she was weeping despondently for John’s internal suffering, and it rattled hard against the pavement, choking up the grates. The tarmac rivers – endless city sidewalks twisting and turning whenever he faced – that flanked him were blackened by dampness as he picked his way across them, his hands in his close-fitting jacket, towards Bruce’s quickly receding figure. He tailed him with graceful succession and predator watchfulness until he walked past an alleyway, when he grabbed Bruce by the shoulder, feeling him tense under his hand, and pulled him into the alley, into a yawn of gaping darkness.

Something – an elbow, a fist, a foot, a knee, he didn’t see which – jammed into his stomach, and he gagged, hunching over. He felt something, presumably an elbow, assault his back, and he buckled, sprawling and eating grit, spitting and swearing. Belatedly, he realised how stupid it was to grab Bruce Wayne of all people without warning him first, and, feeling sorry for himself, he spat blood. Oh well. It was too late now.

Importantly, to his own credit, he didn’t retaliate, involuntarily or otherwise.

“John?” Pushing his wet hair out his eyes – his hood had fallen back during the assault – Bruce stared at him in astonishment, looking uncharacteristically unarmed. John feared for a moment it was the strange man from Arkham, because that was the only other time he’d seen him stripped of his defences, but the guard came back up with a snap, and the vulnerability dashed away simultaneously until there was nothing left but a blank slate. He blinked as he observed chidingly, “You grabbed me.”

John got up slowly, flexing his sore muscles. Pain thrummed through him, slow but sure, like the beat of a separate heart. One thing John had always given Bruce credit for was his ability to fight and defend – but only when he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. Sniffing sourly, he bristled, “I didn’t expect you to get physical!”

“Sorry.” Bruce didn’t sound very sorry. He looked a little dazed. Actually, he looked almost entirely out of it, like John had interrupted something of significant importance and personal impact – or like he was intoxicated. His hand was curled tightly around something, his veins standing on end.

Driven by some unknown, buried compulsion, a voice in his head that whispered between the littered web of his shattered thoughts, he backed Bruce up against the slick alley wall, who took in a sharp inhalation of breath in surprise but, surprisingly, allowed it (allowing it simply meaning he didn’t dig his elbow into his jugular but stared at him in favour) – John almost took a surprised breath himself. He caged Bruce between his arms, his hands flat against the wall, and felt heat rolling off him in tangible waves, his steady heartbeat beating slowly under his.

Bruce wasn’t alarmed. Good to know.

Their height difference didn’t matter. Somehow, John managed to feel inches taller than he actually was, and Bruce seemed suddenly a lot smaller. Though he wasn’t alarmed, tepid confusion glittered in the billionaire’s eyes.

“Your voicemails-” John broke off, trying to string together words that could explain the inexplicable, blistering crest of anger marring his stomach lining. The words wouldn’t come. Ineloquently, he moved his mouth with no ramification as Bruce stared at him with stretched patience, awaiting the return of his eloquence. Doctors aside, Bruce had always been the most patient person in his life. “Well,” he diverted lamely, “I’m here now.” His voice sounded slightly sulky in his ears. “So you can keep an eye on me.”

Bruce’s eyebrows drew towards the centre of his forehead. He didn’t keep eye contact – he had difficulty with that, too, just like he had problems with expressing himself – as he said, questioningly, “John, you don’t... you don’t think I’m trying to keep tabs on you because of... because of Joker, do you?”

John was baffled. “Well, aren’t you, bu – Bruce?”

“No. I was... concerned about whether you had a place to stay, John. That’s all. And I wanted – want – you to come live with me, if you have nowhere else to go. You’re good company, John.”

“Oh.” John didn’t know what to do with this information. It was so far from what he’d been mulling over, and the contrast gave him an almost panicky, frustrated feeling to have to reassemble what he thought he knew. Giggles bubbled up his throat hysterically. He had to turn away and wrap his arms around himself. He didn’t want Bruce to see him like this – vulnerable. Bruce was never vulnerable, so John felt ashamed to succumb to something his best friend rarely ever had.

Bruce’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. His hands were, in society, imperfect – scarred and pale, they were the hands of a criminal boxer, not a billionaire playboy. But with one touch, John felt the panicky, frustrated feeling quell softly. “Take your time, John,” he finally prompted as John turned to look at him.

“I’m okay.” Clenching and unclenching his fists as he breathed to make absolutely sure, John smiled. He was sure. He was calm again, and how strange was that? Human contact could do what Arkham medicine, most of the time, couldn’t. No, that was too broad of a term, ‘human’ – Bruce’s contact. “Thanks, buddy.”

“No problem, John.” Bruce backed up, putting a respectful amount of space between them again. John felt the loss like it was physical; the shoulder where his hand had once rested felt sizzled out. “What are you doing out at this time of night?” If he was suspicious, it didn’t show, but, regardless, John dug his nails into his palms meditatively.

“Oh, you know – clearing the old cog wheel.” John tapped his temple with his right index finger before lifting his other hand unceremoniously. He unfurled it like a ripe flower, revealing, infused with his palm – he’d held it tightly – a memory card, sheened thinly by a fine layer of dust. “What’s this?”

Bruce opened his own hand where the memory card had once sat, looking – well – startled was the closest word for it. He blinked as he clenched and unclenched his hand, like he was testing to see if the memory card would materialise back into his hand, proving John was holding something different entirely, before he looked back at him. “How did you do that?”

“You didn’t answer my question, Bats.”

Bruce sighed, turning his head away. He stared out the alley as a white car, stained by – something – glissaded down the frosty road, flashing their broken headlights sporadically ahead of them. He said nothing about the car like he’d expected him to as a subject change; instead, he explained everything – the gala, the creature, what it had said about ‘wronging’ him, the memory card, the computer errors, and, finally, Alfred’s ingenious, basic idea to buy a camera that matched the memory card. It looked like a strange memory card, though, nothing John had ever seen, and in Arkham he’d liked to tinker with things like broken phones and dead cameras as one of his activities all the time – he’d dealt with plenty of memory cards before.

“How you wronged him?” John frowned, holding the memory card to the light, which was actually just a thin ribbon of moonlight peeking into the alley. “Buddy, you don’t think it was something your father did, do you?”

Bruce shook his head slowly, but his eyes were far away. He shoved his hand through his hair, mussing the onyx locks attractively. They almost seemed to blend into the darkness. He said tightly, “I don’t know. The way he looked at me – John, it was personal. But I’ve never – I’ve never wronged someone before, not to the degree of exacting revenge. Well... apart from you...”

“Well,” John reasoned calmly, “we just need to play his game, don’t we? Put the puzzle pieces together to find a sweet treat at the end. Then we’ll know.”

“We?” Bruce sounded carefully blank.

John slitted his eyes. “Yes, we! I’m now working with you, buddy. You know, Bruce and John, John and Bruce, a team. We can take him down together!” At Bruce’s unconvinced look, he wheedled, “He tried to manipulate me, you know. Don’t I deserve to be a part of this?” And his eyes flicked to the mouth of the alley. It would take two seconds to dart away at a running speed if he answered the next question wrongly. Maybe, if he had the element of surprise on his hand, he’d be able to keep to the shadows and lose him. But Bruce was the shadows, and the idea sounded daunting. But he’d outrun him in the past, hadn’t he? He didn’t have much strength, but he did have speed. “Don’t you trust me, Bruce? After everything you said, after everything we agreed on, you still don’t-”

“John,” Bruce exhaled, deflating – he really did look like a popped party balloon, which spawned the image of a pink helium balloon shaped as a bat; John almost giggled. “Of course I trust you.”

John blinked, startled. “You – You do?”

“Yes. I... I do believe you’re trying.” Bruce sounded tentative. A burst of sweet warmth, like his blood had been replaced with hot chocolate, adulterated his veins, making him feel unhealthily feeble. “Whatever that is worth... But... I like to work on my own.”

John stepped closer. He wanted to reach out and touch him so badly he ached, and now he was close enough to, not that he dared. “It can be a new experience,” he coaxed imploringly. “Dr Leland is always telling me to try new things – it keeps us refreshed spiritually.”

“This could be dangerous, John. I wouldn’t forgive myself if you got hurt.”

Sentimental pain prickled his heart, like the thorn of a rose piercing his skin. Now the urge to touch him was beyond aching – it was agonising. “I won’t, buddy. I’m stronger than you give me credit for.”

“I know you’re strong.”

John blinked. “You do?”

“Of course I do. Not just physically, but emotionally. You’ve bore the brunt of a lot of shit, John. But...”

John decided, if he allowed it, Bruce would list off infinite reasons why working together was a bad idea, apparently none of which being brittle trust. So, he turned on his heel and phlegmatically sauntered out the alley, a surprised Bruce hot on his heels. “This memory card is strange, buddy,” he observed. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

“Do you know anything about them?” Bruce asked, recovering, as he fell into step beside him.

#batjokes #juce #juce fanfiction #telltale juce #batman telltale #batmanxjoker #jokerxbatman #johnxbruce #brucexjohn #batjokes fanfiction

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queerbaitingjuce · 6 years ago

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Metamorph - Chapter One (Part Three)

“Someone called you, Master Bruce, while you were working. They left a voice mail.”

“Mm?” Bruce didn’t turn around. He suspected it was business, something drab he’d attend to later, and held no interest in it.

“It – It was John, Bruce. He... He was released from Arkham earlier this morning.”

((Thank you to everyone who showed interest in the idea of this fanfiction 😭 it's finally here. I was asked to also upload it here, since some people can't access it elsewhere, but here's the link if you want to read it on Archive Of Our Own:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817548/chapters/36821610))

#batjokes #batjokes fanfiction #telltale batjokes #juce #juce fanfiction #brucexjohn #johnxbruce #jokerxbatman #batmanxjoker

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queerbaitingjuce · 6 years ago

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Telltale Batjokes fanfiction (Chapter One) finally finished!

I have FINALLY finished the first chapter of the season 3 based, shapeshifter-oriented fanfiction I asked for the opinion of, thanks to the positive feedback! It's in the process of being edited right now. Should I post it on here as well as the website? Hm...

#juce #batjokes #fanfiction #batjokes fanfiction #jokerxbatman #batmanxjoker #johnxbruce #brucexjohn #telltale batjokes #batman telltale

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queerbaitingjuce · 6 years ago

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Metamorph - Chapter 2 - Part Two

“I used to dissect broken equipment at Arkham – phones, laptops, cameras. The guards and doctors would give me their stuff when it broke and wouldn’t sell, and I’d try fix the problem. It was very meditating, picking something apart and rebuilding it more gloriously than before.”

“I can only imagine.”

“I thought... Wait, I thought you built and fixed all your... you know... tech?”

“Well... Tiffany does now, but Lucius was always my tech guy.”

John swivelled his head to stare. “The friend that went out with a bang?”

Bruce’s face pinched. “Yes.”

“My entire life as I know it has been a lie.”

Shaking his head, Bruce evaded. “What’s so strange about it?”

“Everything – the thickness, the shape. I’d figure it’s a pretty uncommon camera.” John cut his gaze to the path ahead of them again. “Didn’t you say your computer is supposed to be able to hack into things like this?”

“Every memory card branded to the public.” Bruce shook his head soberly. “You’re right – it has to be an uncommon camera. One no one’s ever heard of before.”

“And you’re going sniffing around as Bruce Wayne?” John eyed him curiously. “It’s nighttime, buddy. What about The Bat? I thought this was his detective time.”

“Alfred prefers me to not get changed in the house when he’s there – he’s... well, he’s struggling to cope with... everything.”

“Oh.” John paused, remembering what Dr Leland had told him to do when people opened up. “Well, thanks for telling me, buddy.”

“This is it.” Bruce pointed. Ahead, bathed by flickering streetlamps, was a small electronics shop, TVs blinking static in their positions behind the front smudged windows. “The only electronics shop in Gotham.”

“The only one?” John eyed it doubtfully. It was dingy and squat, not looking very adequate at all.

“The others burned down within these past couple of days – arson, I’m presuming, but I’m still trying to prove it.”

“How are you going to do that?” John asked curiously as they approached the electronics shop, which, to John’s dull confusion, looked closed. The door was imprisoned by bars.

“Well, I read the files about the fire which tell me what colour the flames and the smoke were.”

John was puzzled. “Won’t they be orange and black?”

“Not necessarily. Blue flames paired with black smoke, for example, points to burning acetone. Yellow or white flames paired with grey or white smoke points to benzene. Pale yellow or white flames with brown or black smoke points to burning naphtha. White flames with white smoke points to phosphorous, so on. These are all fire accelerants that point to arson. In this case, yellow flames paired with grey smoke were recorded, which can mean either burning fabric or burning lacquer thinner.”

“What’s lacquer thinner?”

“It’s another accelerant. It speeds up the process of burning; simply putting it, it destroys evidence significantly quicker. People commit arson typically to collect insurance, but this time, well... it’s clearly so we go to the shop the man wants us to.”

“Oh. So, isn’t that case closed?”

“What?”

“Well, you can prove it’s arson, can’t you? From the lacquer thinner?”

“Not necessarily. First of all, that doesn’t identify the criminal. Second of all, I need to look at the seat of the blaze, where the heaviest concentration of ash is, which is where it all began, and determine whether or not there’s lacquer thinner or fabric fibres at the scene, which will determine whether it was a natural fire or not.”

“How do you do that?”

“I swab it and take it back to the Cave for analysis.”

“Oh. Well, surely it is arson, buddy? Not every electronics store can burst into flames in such a short amount of time, can they?”

“No, of course not, but we need evidence.”

“Isn’t coincidence evidence enough?”

“Coincidence is only suspicion,” Bruce countered. “It isn’t evidence. If Jim Gordon went to court with coincidence as evidence, he’d be laughed straight back out.”

“Have there been any deaths?”

“Yes. One death at every scene, charred to the point of unrecognition.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes. Except one scene. There were two bodies found, side by side, locked in either an embrace or a struggle. Before death, in the case of a fire, the muscles... stiffen. Corpses assume the position they were in before-”

“Before becoming crispy joints of meat?”

Bruce shot him a disapproving look, but didn’t admonish him. “Yes. One of them has been identified using dental records – it was the store manager. His wife was hysterical. She said he was supposed to be working alone, which suggested the other corpse was either a secret lover or-”

“Or the killer.”

“Exactly.”

“So, have they identified the other man? Or woman? Or... whatever?”

“Not yet. But there was some blood found outside the shop – it could be anyone’s, but it was found on the top of the fence bordering the establishment, which suggests someone tried to climb it and got a nasty laceration on the way down.”

“How do they – you – take blood for sampling?” John stared at Bruce in fascination. His eyes burned with passion when he spoke about forensics in the same way a car-lover’s eyes burned when they spoke about cars. It was pleasant to look at, Bruce talking about something he so clearly – well – maybe not enjoyed but was invested in.

“Well, they use a swab – it’s a bit of cotton on the end of a wooden stick. You swab it, then put it in a tube, then snap the end of the stick off so you can seal the tube. You label it and take it away for examination.”

“Oh. I thought only fingertips were used.”

“Not necessarily, no. Anything can be used, really, to help solve a crime – fibres of fabric, grit, soil, skin, a piece of hair. Blood has their own print. The rarer the blood, the better – it singles out the people a lot quicker.”

“Does that always work?”

“No. If their blood has never been recorded, no match will come back. It’s the same with fingerprints. If they don’t have a history of a criminal record, their fingerprints will come back inconclusive.”

“Then what?”

“The examination of fibres and fingerprints.”

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queerbaitingjuce · 6 years ago

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Metamorph - Chapter One (Part Two)

“Perhaps,” Bruce agreed quietly, mostly to just roll the word around on his tongue for the sake of doing something. He felt terribly estranged. He’d never felt this way about anything before. “Are you coming?”

Alfred smiled the ghost of a smile at him, a smile that assured him that, eventually, they’d be okay. “Eventually,” he promised.

That was all the assurance he needed. With a polite smile, Bruce turned and walked out the door.

***

Bruce spent a good hour greeting guests, offering them champagne more expensive than their month’s rent and offering around a few courteous dances. Of course, he was also asked, mostly by young women, and, graciously, he accepted every time. No sooner had he started to dance with a brunette was he dancing with a petite blonde girl with drawn-on eyebrows, emphasised black lips and a skimpy Gothic dress paired with clunky leather boots. He wouldn’t look at her, and not because he was being discriminative against her sense of dress. She was young, maybe too young to have alcohol on her breath, and she was getting very strange with her hands.

“Excuse me? Please can I cut in?”

Bruce turned to look at the man who’d spoken in surprise. He was tall, though no taller than Bruce: probably six foot or so. He had tawny skin and dark brown hair and was wearing an unstylish brown suit that looked cheap and worn past its youth. “Yes, of course,” he said politely, but the man wasn’t looking at him; he was looking at the woman.

“I was talking to you, sweetheart.”

The woman looked both confused and harassed. Her cheeks flamed up with colour under her pasty makeup. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, baby, please. If you were begging, you’d be on your knees.” The man took one of Bruce’s hands, assuming a dancer’s stance, and a dominant one at that. Bruce was too surprised to reject the casual contact. “Hello, darling,” he greeted quietly, steering him away from the woman who stared after them in amazed puzzlement. “Have you been having fun?”

Speechless, Bruce stared at him. There was something familiar yet unfamiliar about his voice, his long jawline, his wild eyebrows, even his hands, one folded firmly around his. There were scars randomly speckling his spidery fingers, Bruce observed despite himself, that were very similar to his own. Under the spicy, cheap smell of aftershave, Bruce could detect a hint of smoke and cinnamon.

“The champagne is absolutely phenomenal,” the man continued, undeterred by his silence. People were starting to stop dancing in favour of staring, and Bruce felt a very distant and very quickly receding sliver of alarm scorching the lining of his stomach. He wondered what people would say about the fact he was dancing intimately with another man, but, in a more forward part of his mind, he wondered what was so familiar about the delicate arch of the man’s throat, peeking out from a pink collar. There was a splotch of either blood or wine on the fraying rim of it. “You must simply introduce me to your dealer, darling. The taste reminds me of Paris, you see, and the pastel azure of the sky in the afternoon-”

“John?”

The man’s eyes glittered in his browned face like poisonous water. Pretence of normalcy forgotten, he leaned closer like a secret. His breath smelt sour, so different from John’s own. “Guess again,” he murmured, his voice as silky as satin and wrapping Bruce as delicately as so. “Better than John,” he hinted assuredly.

It clicked. This wasn’t John, no; he believed that. Standing in front of him was the very man that he had lost in the rain, the one that had sported his face in Arkham Asylum; the man that had tried to manipulate himself into John’s darkest desires that had been cleverly hidden with the help of medication and Dr Leland. Bruce could almost feel rage and disgust as a live thing inside him as he stared at the creature now donning his best friend’s face. Everything else fell away into a camera-lens blur, the man coming into a sharper, more detailed focus, and he forgot how to function, how to breathe, shutting down completely. He’d imagined plenty of things he would do when finally getting his hands on this man, and now the time had come he didn’t know which or what to do. Nothing violent – Bruce Wayne shouldn’t have a violent part of him, he reminded himself sternly.

Don’t make a scene. You are Bruce Wayne, a stupid, weak businessman. You cannot make a scene.

Bruce tightened his hand around his, stilling. The man’s brown suit seemed so strange on John’s skin, so bleached of colour, so harsh against a backdrop of chalk-white, and Bruce tried not to think about how he might have acquired the outfit. It didn’t help the burning sensation in his midriff. “You,” he spat.

The man – the creature – tutted at him disapprovingly. He was using John’s voice in a way John never used it, with silky, cloy, cocky smoothness and something akin to careful seduction. “Such impolite savagery,” he taunted. “I thought you would be pleased to see me. I’m hurt. Weren’t you scouring for me day and night as though hopelessly in love with me like in Cinderella, Bruce Wayne?” He said his name like it was fine, powdered poison, through a straight set of teeth – John’s teeth. “Well, here I am. Your own beautiful nightmare in the flesh. Your own devilish Cinderella.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Bruce forced out through his teeth. The urge to haul him outside by the flesh pouching the back of his neck, like a kitten, was so powerful his hands shook. Instead, he focused on dancing again; them standing motionlessly in the centre of a gaggle of dancers was earning a few stares, or maybe that was a matter of their gender. “Assuming another man’s face during conversation... Are you really that cowardly?” he sneered now, wanting to destroy this man in the only way he could. Personal. This was still personal. And now he was wearing John’s face...

The man’s hand tightened around his with surprising strength. Bruce’s skin thrummed with pain. He hid his grimace expertly. “Don’t assume,” the man said, slowly, softly, “to understand, Mr. Wayne.” He flattered him with a brilliant smile, the anger dissipating from his eyes like tepid water from a pierced water bottle, just like that. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

“What?”

“The obvious questions!” the creature rejoined cheerfully. “‘Who are you?’, ‘What do you want?’, ‘Where are you hiding?’, ‘What are you?’, ‘How did you get here?’”

Feeling like he was being made a mockery, Bruce snapped, “Would you tell me?” without hope, more to prove a point than anything else.

“Well, no,” the creature admitted with the same assured cheer woven around his voice, and Bruce gave him a pointed look, “but what’s a vocal first meeting between villain and hero without unanswered questions? I need to be a mystery.”

“Get to the point.”

Now it was the creature’s turn to blink. “What?”

“Don’t tell me you came here to dance with me and indulge in my champagne.”

An equal mixture of amusement and bitterness etched the creature’s face. “Oh, very well,” he sighed lightly. “Though dancing with Gotham’s most eligible bachelor was a pleasant bonus, and the champagne really was marvellous.”

Bruce stared. He wondered if this man was human, or had been human once, with extraordinary circumstances; he also wondered if this was a creature born to both the art of shape-shifting and manipulation, which barely seemed possible. He could process giant men and purple-skinned men in tubes, because, really, that was just science. He couldn’t blame shape-shifting on science, though, which was all he knew. He felt suddenly very tired.

“Oh, relax.” With a slender thumb, the man traced his eyebrow softly, which was apparently warped in distress. “Soon, I’ll be out of your hair, and then you can go back to melting zippers and panties for miles over glasses of flowery champagne.”

Incredulously, Bruce said, “I can’t just let you leave.”

“You’re going to have to, I’m afraid.” The creature’s eyes flashed. “Do you like puzzles?”

Bruce paused. “What?”

“Puzzles. Do you like them?” He didn’t wait for a response, tripping over his own words in his haste to get them out. “Because our time together, sweetheart, will be a puzzle, and an arcane one at that: no picture on the front of the box, no single idea what the finished product will look like, the finale at the end. The puzzle of my life, in fact – the puzzle that shows how deeply you wronged me, divided in sections that once broke my heart. Can you handle that?”

“And if I refuse to... to play?” Bruce muttered through numb lips.

The man pressed his mouth against Bruce’s ear, and Bruce had the savage, alarming thought that this was what it would feel like to have John so close, and hot blood seared him from his ears to his cheekbones to his throat. His hands shook violently now. They’d always been as steady as a heartbeat. “Then I can’t promise you the next time you see Tiffany, Alfred or John, even Selina Kyle, they’ll have a heartbeat.” He leaned back calmly, like he hadn’t just threatened Bruce’s entire family, and stuck out his hand. “So – do you assent to play with me?”

Then he smiled, and Bruce thought it was what a spider’s smile would look like every time another naive insect fell tangled into their intricate web. He was the insect, thrashing against the sticky silk listlessly, and, somehow, in such an abrupt space of time, the man was the spider, staring at him devilishly from his position of his superiority. Bruce was, in fact, so deeply tangled he didn’t know where the exit was. He knew one thing: the man wasn’t bluffing. If he didn’t build the puzzle, play the game, everyone he loved would turn up dead.

The man’s hand was clammy and soft with makeup.

“So, the game begins,” he purred, and then he disappeared, leaving Bruce alone with a memory card in his curled fist.

***

His vision was starting to blur, words dancing onscreen like they were alive. He’d plugged the memory card given to him by the strange man into the computer in the cave a few hours ago, but so far he’d run into countless errors and no idea of how to crack them. Nothing he did seemed to wheedle the contents of the card out. In red block letters, ‘ERROR’ striped over the screen again, flashing in a way that drove pain behind his eyes, and he had to turn away.

Alfred was approaching him, a tray of tea balanced precariously in his wizened hands. “Tea, sir?”

Bruce almost smiled. Alfred insisted most things could be made better with tea. With a sharp pierce of longing, Bruce thought how he desired that to be true at the moment. “Thank you, Alfred.” He heard the weariness in his voice as he reached out for the tea and took a grateful sip. It had the rich essence of alcohol. Then he really did smile. “I needed this.”

“Have you made any progress yet, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, obviously trying his best to push aside his conviction against Batman for Bruce’s sake. Bruce seriously could have cried; he was so tired.

“No. The Computer keeps saying ‘error’, again and again, like clockwork. I haven’t figured out a way to get past it.”

“Perhaps,” said Alfred, “it would be best to just buy the camera it belonged to.”

Bruce blinked at him in surprise. “Do you think that’s all I can do?”

“It would be the most simple way to get around the problem, Master Bruce,” Alfred confirmed, putting the tray down. On it was also a plate of homemade cookies, fluffy and moistened by melted chocolate chips. Bruce’s childhood favourite. The cold stone in his gut thawed. “Are you sure doing what this man says is a good idea, Bruce? You don’t know the first thing about him.”

Bruce sighed and turned back to the computer. He’d been asking himself that since the gala, but he knew he couldn’t run the risk of casualties, not innocent ones, not loved ones. “You know I have no choice, Alfred,” he said. “He said this puzzle will teach me about him and – and how I wronged him.”

“Maybe it was something your father did,” suggested Alfred, sounding resigned. “Many hold grudges against you for that.”

“Maybe,” agreed Bruce, his heart not in it. “I’ll ask Tiffany to try crack this while I go to the closest electronic shop and try buy a camera that matches the card.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817548/chapters/36821610

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