Title: Haunted
Genre: Crazy
Pairing: There's none really, until the end. Joker/Batman
Rating: PG-13, for blood.
Summary: He comes home from his long nights of being Batman, and thinks he have a normal night for a moment of his life, but really, when is the Batman's life ever normal with the Joker around?
Author's Note: This is my best Batman piece yet. I seriously think I did an awesome job at Bruce losing his mind. You may get confused at some points, because he's having some real conflicts with himself, but you may understand it after a while. PLEASE READ AND COMMENT! I love your opinions :
Disclaimer: I don't own Batman.
"Another long night out, Mr. Wayne?"
An exasperated and very exhausted sigh escaped Bruce's lips as he entered his home, raking the jet-black Batman mask off of his head to run a hand through his sweat-slicked brunette hair. His dark blue eyes sent a tired smile in the old butler's direction as his hands unbuckled the utility belt from his waist. "Just another normal night for the Batman, Alfred."
Alfred nodded his head, a kind smile on his face now. "I set some fresh towels in the bathroom so you's could take a shower. Go get yourself cleaned up, and get to bed."
"Thanks," Bruce said, voice full of gratefulness as he dragged himself up the curved stairway, his hand dragging along the cherry wood rail, eyes dancing with the lights flickering on his diamond clad chandelier. This was his home, nothing special in his opinion, but others would think differently of his rich furnished home. But in reality - it was just home - to him anyway. A place to rest his head on night's he had the time to, where he could feel safe, and remember he wasn't just Batman, he was human - he was Bruce Wayne.
He followed the hallway to his door, and opened it with a leather gloved hand, and inside was just his usual room - the walls clothed with a tan colored paint; floors rugged with only the finest plush carpets, a bed carved from oak and sheets of nice, soft Egyptian fabric. Nothing special. Letting out a yawn, he stripped himself of his armor, and let it fall to the floor, and then proceeded to remove his second skin, leaving him naked in his room.
Bruce gave a grunt as his eyes fell upon his open window. Did Alfred do that? His shoulders lifted up in a lazy shrug, then slumped back down as he strode over to close them. The night sky was dark above him, no stars tonight, were there ever stars present in Gotham City? A frown appeared on his face at the sudden realization. No stars . . . And he'd never noticed. Biting his upper lip he shook his head, and closed the windows and their beautiful, purple silk curtains.
His eyes lingered on those curtains, his hands still holding tightly to the smooth fabric in his grip. Purple . . . ? Batsy. With widened eyes, panic coursed through Bruce's veins. The Joker. That name was like a ghost to him, haunting him everywhere he went. He couldn't sleep, couldn't think, couldn't blink without that purple clown jumping into his thoughts; consuming his mind with those dark ringed eyes. Those menacing, entrancing forest green eyes. What's the matter, Bats, baby? You can't stop thinking about your favorite clown?
Those eyes! Bruce couldn't take it, as he tore the curtains down, and backed up into his bed, the soft mattress catching him in his fall. Finally looking up, his lungs raced for air; panting, chest billowing in and out with each desperate breath. Good, breathe Batsy. In and out, in and out, in and out. Doesn't it make you think of kinky things when I say in and out?
Ugh! Clutching his forehead, Bruce lowered himself down to his knees, cradling his head in-between his legs and rocking back and forth to clear his mind. Too many nights playing the roll of Batman was finally getting to him. I need a shower. Maybe it'll clear my mind.
It was more than just being Batman. It was that stupid clown, always there, always wrecking things and killing. Bruce was constantly being reminded of the other's presence, the Joker made damn sure of that. He left bodies with notes of hearts and messages saying 'To my beloved Batsy' and all that other stupid shit the Joker did. Batman was never free from the clutches of those purple, leather gloves. He needed a break. Needed to clear his mind . . . Take a shower, maybe. Yeah, that'll help.
With a heavy sigh Bruce untangled himself from his feeble position, and looked at the mess he had made. The purple curtains were on the floor in a heap, and was that blood? Bruce could feel the nausea rise to his throat as he lifted his hands to examine them. He'd cut himself, but how? Why was he bleeding?
As he looked closer, he found the wound behind the blood. Nice, long, ragged cuts sliced down his arms. They were as if someone had used their nails to rake them down his arms, and there was more than one - three - on each arm. Had he done that to himself? Had he hurt himself in his state of panic? Look at the blood, Batsy. Look at it. Doesn't it make you go CRAZY?
Something was happening to Bruce, and he knew it. Something wasn't right. Was he . . . losing his mind? No. Breathe Bruce. Calm down. Take a SHOWER, and breathe. CLEAR your mind!
Shaking his head of any more thoughts he stood himself up to his feet, hands placed up in front of him as if they had a disease, and he stumbled to the bathroom, the blood escaping his arms and dripping to the floor. The first thing he did was turn the faucet to the bath on, and he ignored the blood that splattered onto the nice white porcelain surface, staining it red. He ignored the blood that dripped to the nice, white tile floor. He ignored it, because it was making him crazy, Batsy. You're losing your mind!
You're FINE Bruce. Bandage your arms and take a bath. CLEAR YOUR MIND. That's just what he did. He opened the medicine cabinet above his sink, and ignored the blood that bled into his sink, with each droplet that lands, it breaks, and splatters into millions of more crimson droplets. Look at it, Batsy. LOOK AT IT!
His breaths were strangled in his throat, his chest felt like bricks were being placed on it, weighing him down. His mind was racing; dizzy; losing itself with all these voices in his head. In his dazed condition, he didn't notice all the things he pushed out of his way, falling to the floor. He didn't care, as he found the medical tape, slammed the toilet seat down and sat himself on it, and then proceeded to get the tape out of its case, but he did. He struggled to bandage each arm, to wrap it around perfectly with the medical tape, but he succeeded, and let a sigh of relief fall from his lips. "I'm fine."
It was time to calm down. He let his breathing even out before he remembered the bath that was filling with water, and he stood to his feet and turned the faucet off. The water looked inviting, nice, warm, and steamy. Closing his eyes, he stepped into his tub, and lowered himself down, making sure his freshly bandaged arms were on either edge and not in the water, and he leaned back against the back of the tub. It was so relaxing; clearing his mind, clearing your mind.
Opening his eyes back up he closed the shower curtain, and he let out a content sigh. The water felt wonderful against his hot, sticky skin. It smoothed out his aching muscles, and calmed him down. Another sigh escaped his lips as he looked down at the water, at his reflection that rippled along its surface.
He looked so tired, so old, in this reflection. You're getting older, aren't you? You're only thirty-four, Bruce. You're just tired.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he having arguments with himself? Batsy's losing his mind!
A high-pitched laughter broke out in his ear, and he couldn't help but react in a way only Batman would, but he was Batman, so it came naturally. Looking up with expectant, ready-for-action, blue eyes, he found nothing. Then where had it come from, if it was nothing? He looked up at the shower curtain, and almost had a heart attack.
Why so serious?
The Joker. It had to be. It was evident!
He stood to his feet, water splashing around him, tipping over the edge and landing on the floor as he grabbed the plastic curtain and pulled it back, revealing nothing but . . . and empty bathroom. The medical still laid unraveled on the sink's edge, pill containers still rested on the floor, the caps beside them and the contents scattered about. He snarled as he pulled the curtain back out again, and there was nothing there.
Bruce, calm down. It was only your imagination playing tricks on you. Clean yourself up and go get some much needed sleep. He listened to the voice, and sat back down, grabbing the bottle of shampoo and pouring a large, goo-y amount into his hand, then slathering it into his hair, he rubbed his scalp really good. Taking a large inhale, he laid back down into the water, and held his breath.
The sound of water was soothing. It was calm, and nice. The soft bubbles in his ear, the swish of every move he made. It was as if he had to open his eyes, to relieve a selfish side of himself. The surface was clear, it was of his ceiling - his nice, white ceiling - and of waves on the top. It was what you'd expect to see, I guess.
Just as Bruce was beginning to mellow out, something leaned over the edge of the tub, and looked down at him through thick, round black paint. Batsy. The face was blurry and white, but the lips were painted red, and it was evident. Why so serious, Batsy?The figure tilted its head, and the red of its lips opened up, widening, was it grinning at him? You look SCARED to see me. Bruce's eyes widened too, and the creature above him shook with laughter? Let's put a smile on that face. And suddenly a hand appeared, a purple gloved hand, that reached into the water to get him. Bruce didn't like that. He squirmed, struggled - anything to fight that hand away, but it still kept coming. Smile for me, lover boy!
It grabbed a hold of his hair and lifted him up, and suddenly -
He was in his bathroom, with a very concerned looking Alfred staring at him from the side. "Sir? You were under when I came in, and when I said your name, you didn't respond, so I got worried. I hope you're not trying to kill yourself on my watch, Master Wayne. I wouldn't want the police to think it was my fault."
"Alfred . . . I saw him. He was looking down at me when I was under the water. He was trying to get me!"
The old butler frowned, and raised a hand to Bruce's forehead, pushing back some bangs that were stuck to his face and setting the back of his hand to the wet and warm skin. "Sir, I think you need to get some rest. Get yourself dried up and go to bed. You've spent too many nights out patrolling and it has gotten you a bit crazy, it does."
Sleep. Bruce. You NEED sleep. The brunette nodded his head as he stood to his feet and accepted the towel that Alfred handed to him, wrapping it around himself. Alfred only glanced at the bandaged arms, and dismissed it, not wanting to bother with more of his useless rants and concerns. "I'll leave you to your business, then."
The old man walked toward the bathroom door, and opened it up, but paused before he left. "Sometimes I wish you'd remember yourself - Bruce, a human - before you remembered Batman."
The door was closed behind him, and Bruce was left frowning, staring at it. Shaking his head he closed the cabinet door, and looked into the mirror. It was him staring back, the same man he'd been for years, the same look he'd had for years. He lifted a hand and took his jaw in it, turning his own face to the side to himself over, looking for any things out of place. As he did this, out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed someone standing behind him, and upon taking a closer inspection, it wasn't someone he wanted to see at all tonight.
"Joker!" The figure smiled at the name, a large, wicked smile - one that Bruce was familiar with as he turned to face the man in purple. But no one was there, only his toilet and a wall. He could feel the anger coursing through his veins, could feel it in his uneven pants as he gripped his head and shifted back and forth, searching for the Clown Prince who he'd seen in his mirror.
Can't stop thinking about me, can you, BATSY? A growl rumbled in Bruce's throat as he stumbled for the door, wanting to leave that room so badly. He slammed the door shut behind him, and turned to face his bedroom instead.
There was nothing out of the ordinary; his bed was waiting for him. Heaving a heavy sigh he stalked over to it, and propped his hands on his waist as he stared down at it. You NEED to get some rest, Bruce.
He silently nodded to the voice's prodding in his head and walked over to his dresser, pulled open the drawer, and grabbed a pair of black, cotton boxer briefs to sleep in. Slipping them on under his towel, he removed the cloth, and revealed nice, muscled thighs that were concealed up further north in areas of privacy.
Bruce scratched gently at his finely toned chest, running the hand up further, tracing his abs, until he reached an area below his nipple, where he itched too. Everything about him was perfect, other than . . . many scars and gnashes, but other than that, Bruce could understand why girls liked him for other reasons than his wealth. He was definitely not bad looking. Touch yourself for me, Batsy. I want to see you moan.
"That's disgusting," Bruce muttered, grimacing at the thought of his own hands wandering his body. It's only human. Bruce scowled at the voice. You're only human underneath that suit of yours, Batsy. And humans sin. What, you can't sin because you're some Hero? "I just don't want to jerk-off for your enjoyment."
What about YOUR enjoyment?
The voice in his head clicked its tongue, and slowly tittered with giggles. Bruce stared down at his bed with blank eyes, all too consumed by his thoughts, as he scratched a spot below his ear. What about his enjoyment? Didn't he need some enjoyment in his life, too? He was only human after all. He was always doing things for other people, why not himself? Because you don't need to, Bruce. It's WRONG.
Is it wrong?
The brunette stared aimlessly at his bed, still, losing himself to this argument. Was it wrong? He didn't notice his hand mindlessly drawing patterns along his perfectly sculpted tummy, sending tickling sensations along his skin. He didn't notice the small smile growing on his face at the touch of his own hand. He hadn't done anyone in a while. Bruce, you don't need this. You're not even in the mood; you're just listening to some brainless thought in your head.
It takes a brainless thought to know a brainless thought!
Bruce was so absorbed into this conversation inside of him that he only noticed his hand when it brushed over his nipple, and made him gasp in pleasure at the sudden jolt of feelings. The higher-pitched voice inside of him clicked its tongue, and laughed at the angry, growling voice on the other side of him. Touching yourself - one. Sleep - zero.
Bruce! "I'm bored . . . " Do it. Make yourself moan.
All this thinking, though, was making Bruce so tired. He gave a sigh of defeat and flopped onto his bed, falling like a dead man shot on the spot, and cuddling into the covers like a cat. "I'm tired," he whispered under his breath, breathing in the clean smell of his sheets. Looks like you lose. Asshole . . .
The window shifted in its place, and slowly, it rose, letting in the night air. The figure on the bed shuddered, but only stirred, didn't wake. The bed creaked under added weight, but the person in the bed didn't notice, only curled tighter into a ball. Hands like tree branches slithered up his chest, and pinched the soft skin beneath. Only a soft groan was made.
"Stop."
It stopped. The shadow looming over the man froze to listen, smiling as no other words of protest were made. Leaning in close, the shadow released a slimy object from its mouth, and let it slide up the man's neck, over the tip of his jaw, and tracing his cheek bone, stopping at the hair line. The shadow breathed against the man's ear, slow and steady, in a rhythm, and that smile grew larger on his face.
"Wake up, Batsy."
The figure beneath the shadow shivered at the voice, and turned, eyelids flickering open, revealing two deep blue eyes that immediately widened at the creature above him. "You!"
Slapping a hand over those tempting, pale, pink lips, the shadow shoved the man's words back down his throat. Red crept over his jaw line, as that smile widened further, deeper. "Hello beautiful."
Bruce's eyes widened up at the familiar face above him, those menacing, entrancing forest green eyes . . . The smile suddenly left the face, and the creature's head tilted to the side, but that smile never did leave for long, and that creature never did stop laughing, and those eyes mocked his soul. "Joker . . . "
The creature smiled even larger - if that was possible - at the name. It bent down low, real low, real close to those lips - so close that if he came an inch closer he could steal a kiss. Bruce's breath caught in his throat as he felt that warm breath on him, as he felt the voices in his head screaming at him from all directions. Suddenly, as if on cue, those lips pressed against his, and all his thoughts stopped, and his mind was silenced.
Pulling away, the Joker, beamed down at him through those eyes.
" I bet you went crazy without me."
You have no idea.
