Disclaimer: Batman © DC comics
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The Heart
Part 05 —
love and confectionary coffins
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Bruce awakens in an old hospital room. It reminds him of the projects in Oldtown, bleak and embrowned, where he'd drag his finger along the buildings and it'd be coated with smouldered rock and earth. This looks just as ramshackle. Even in a hospital, someone has graffiti'd a huge vagina on the wall, with text under it. 30 unsuccessful abortions were performed here, can you hear them wailing?
"I see you're awake." The old butler sits on a plastic chair, perfectly blank. He holds a paper, which he throws over at Bruce. "Eighteen magazines. Three television programs. Countless videos and articles online. Alana Star had an interview in which she speculated about your homosexuality, which sparked controversy. There was no way I could've stopped it, I'm afraid."
Bruce uncurls the paper. His face is plastered over the front page. "Was anyone hurt?"
"There were a few cases of broken ribs and missing teeth, but nothing their insurances wouldn't cover. You did not have any damages either, but we had to move you here because of enthusiastic journalists. Climbed into windows, some of them did. No one would believe we put billionaire in the cellar right next to the corpses."
"Did they identify the dead body that fell down on the car?"
"I don't know. It's in the room next to this."
Bruce massages his forehead. There's no headache, but a drowsy heaviness, like he's slept too long. "Jack," he mumbles. "Do you know anything of the man who was with me?"
"There was no one who matched the description from the waitress. Rumours say the paparazzi used infrared detectors. Still, nothing. He wasn't in the close area, at least. Our own scanners are working on analyzing the gas from the scene while simultaneously hacking into police data banks." Alfred's eyebrows rise. Barely. "I will not intrude your privacy Mr. Wayne, so I will ask no questions. Although I did check with his apartment to see if he was home, which he wasn't."
The roof lamp swings as someone moves over the floor above them. Loose crust is shaken from the roof.
"You said the body was here?"
"Yes. I pulled a few strings. The police thought—or rather, I made them think it—it'd be good to interrogate you over the thing that caused this. You're a drowsy, ill and scared billionaire boy."
"Eavesdropping, Alfred?"
"I planted those security cameras with audio recording for your safety."
Bruce gets up. The hospital clothes are in a light blue, masking the patchwork of scars and bruises underneath. Goes well with his complexion. He'll need to tan soon, to keep up appearances. Waste of time.
As soon as he's out the door, a policeman summons him to the office down the hall. Alfred was right; by the smug look of the policeman, he thinks Bruce will break. Tough luck.
Bruce enters the autopsy room. It is just like he expected; sterile, grey, full of dead bodies in steel drawers. Yet he takes up a façade of tenseness. Commissioner Gordon and a special agent—C. Phillips, 34, sort of slow, taste for the dramatic—expect him, hands in their pockets. It looks like a scene out of a film noir, and Phillips strengthens the connection with his monochrome outfit and dumb fedora.
"Mr. Wayne."
"Gordon, right? And... other guy?" Bruce rubs his face, revealing a sleep deprived and slightly irritated expression. "Could we just get it over with? I have a headache and I wanna go home."
As usual, Gordon lights a cig.
"I don't think you can do that in here," one of the accompanying recruits says.
"What, think the dead will die of cancer, Smith?" Gordon is less dramatic. Smith doubtlessly asked Gordon the bad cop good cop question. Gordon doubtlessly gave him a stupid look.
"Smith, get out of here. Now." Phillips cracks the joints of his fingers, as if starting business. "I think you're disturbing Mr. Wayne's recollection." Smith begrudgingly goes, sending Bruce a dirty look. Bruce gives him a finger.
Gordon asks, "Want a smoke, Mr. Wayne?"
"Girls don't like nicotine breath."
He shrugs. He doesn't have any contempt for Bruce Wayne. In his eyes, he's still just a lost boy trying to fill the gap in his life with drinking and whoring. Nothing special.
Phillips, however, won't let it go so easily. "Hm. And you do like girls, don't you? Pretty girls, with their pretty perfume and pretty heels. I've heard your girls fuck like they're boneless. Pretty boys, too, from what I've heard. Seen the papers. Well... This guy isn't pretty."
He drags the white cloth away.
Thankfully, Bruce remembers to look shocked. He does a special mental manoeuvre—and promptly pukes into a plastic bag Alfred gave him. ("They think you're weak, sir. Let them.") "Fucking hell."
"As you see the seriousness of this situation, I won't bother with petty questions. Do you know this man?"
Bruce squints, sticking his tongue out in disgust. "All I see is a bunch of teeth where teeth shouldn't be. Jesus. Do you look at this regularly?"
Gordon continues smoking like a chimney.
"Do you have any enemies, Mr. Wayne?" Phillips asks.
"The girls I didn't call back? Plus their boyfriends? Shit, I dunno. Enemies turn into your best friends after a certain amount of money. It's the other way around if you stop paying them."
Phillips snorts. "Try to be helpful, Mr. Wayne."
"I don't know anything, alright?"
"Then thank you for your help," Phillips says between his teeth. "So nice that a prominent media figure like yourself would take the time to help out who this poor fucker is. You're such a good man, Wayne." With that he storms out.
Gordon remains.
Bruce pauses. "Did you bring mom and dad to a place like this when they died?"
Gordon's expression turns wry. He lays a hand on Bruce's shoulder, who stiffens, then relaxes. "Something like that. You wouldn't stop clutching their hand. Scared they'd leave. Bit an officer who tried to take you away." 'After that, you turned quiet—wouldn't react to anything. Your butler came and took you away. Where's that scared little boy now, I wonder?'
Bruce chuckles, bitterly. "They did leave though. Why did they do that?"
Gordon has no answer, and so the two men stand there in the autopsy room, silent.
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Crashed cars, parts of them scattered about. Barricade tape, everywhere. Ash. Dried blood. Rain. Bruce breathes in, allowing concrete dust to fill his lungs. His mouth is gritty.
Alfred holds an umbrella, but Bruce has declined to share. "Rain sharpens my senses," he explains. They stand a distance from the mess. It is very chaotic, like the last murder. Yet it couldn't have been Jack. Jack sat right beside him when it happened, head smashing against the thankfully functional airbag.
"You were out for nine hours, sir. I believe he can have gotten quite far by now."
"Doesn't matter. Need to check."
Bruce's shoulders are hunched, and he feels naked stalking the streets without costume and in broad daylight. The sunshine itches. Luckily there are no paparazzi left, as the marriage of some pop singer began at 11:30, an hour ago. He scrutinizes the area. "Alfred, begin."
"Very well sir." Alfred collects a notebook from the jacket's inner pocket, turning a few pages. "I caught him on two separate security cameras. One shows him running west, and the other has him heading towards the nearby park. Towards someone."
The hairs on the back of Bruce's neck rise. "Could you identity this person?"
"Hidden by overgrown nature. The park is seldom used after it became a haven for substance abusers."
"See it we start funding another recovery house."
"I will, sir." He scribbles it down in his book. When he looks up, Bruce is headed for the park. Having learnt his lesson after years of this treatment, Alfred merely calls after him, "Click the button sewn into your trouser pocket if you want me to pick you up."
Bruce isn't really listening, focus unwavering.
Footprints.
Bloody footprints, nearly washed away by the rain.
They lead to a back alley. It is empty except from a hobo rummaging through a thrash can. Bruce contemplates interrogating the man, but his reputation is already in shreds and it wouldn't look good should the hobo decide to tell an ambitious journalist.
"If you're looking for your boyfriend, he went that way."
Bruce halts.
Gotham is full of people that sometimes seem so small and insignificant when you put them beside each other. But in truth, every single one has a story to tell with details that match no other. Bruce knows better than anyone good a lone man can do. And the bad.
He does not know the homeless man's tale, nor will he ever know. But he catches a glimpse of it. "I had a boyfriend, too, once. Wouldn't recommend it. Didn't end well." Far too many children are thrown out by their parents because of their sexuality. The government doesn't pick it up before it's too late.
Bruce gives a tight jawed nod.
It takes a white before he enters the park. The landscape is not green, but yellowed, and he must battle through a jungle of dead grass. Thankfully Jack seems to have made a path.
He finds Jack near a small dirty lake, passed out on the grass beside it.
The relief overwhelms him.
"Jack," he calls softly.
The body stirs, revealing a face contorted with the effects of a hangover. Jack looks like Bruce feels like. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, and it is the first time Bruce has heard him curse. All the frustration and exhaustion Bruce has experienced over the last 24 hours bubbles down to small, tired chuckles. The knot in his belly loosens. Jack kneads his forehead, but wears a small smirk. They don't need to waste words. Bruce hands him an aspirin. "Thanks."
"I was afraid you'd gone," Bruce says.
"Sorry." He sits himself up, joints cracking as he does, rubbing sleep away from under his eyes. "Panicked. There were a lot of people. Cameras. A corpse. Not fun. So I ran."
"I understand." Bruce doesn't need to say anything more. "But why here?"
"...It's green? I like green," Jack says. He brushes leaves off his dirtied outfit, standing up. "What happened to the corpse, by the way? You recognize it?"
"No." Bruce pauses. "You're more talkative than usual."
Jack isn't unlike himself in any other way, except having picked up his street accent again. For the first time, Bruce feels like he doesn't need to walk on eggshells not to startle Jack.
"Thought about a lot of things. It left me with a conclusion."
"What things?"
"We were on a date yesterday, weren't we?"
"Yes," Bruce says, and doesn't surprise himself.
"Then... what happened yesterday wasn't alright."
The sudden, unexpected words have a greater effect on Bruce than what he'd expected. He swallows thickly. For the first time in ages, he feels fresh woe. "I understand if you want to end our relationship," he manages to say.
"No! No, I didn't mean that, I just... We've only been on one date, for Christ sake. But I think I need... info, y'know?" Jack kicks a pebble. It doesn't bulge. "Yesterday, people were chasing us. And that was alright. I can handle that. Why, it was a little fun, holding hands and that. But the problem is that you left me."
"I'm sorry."
"I realize you panicked and all, no bad feelings, but if this date thing is gonna work then we gotta stick together, y'know?" Muddy and dirty, he stands there in the tall grass, nervous. "I'm used to being alone. But I like you, Bruce."
How does one fall in love with a ghost?
'It's not the ghost I like,' Bruce thinks, tired and aching. 'It's Jack.'
"No more dating other people. No more lies, except vital ones. I have my past and you have yours." Their presents, too. "A better understanding."
"I promise."
"Thank you. I won't ask for more. We'll... We'll see how it works out, alright?" Jack awkwardly scratches his head, "Now that we have that out of the way..."
The response isn't really thought through.
"We could go back to your place."
"Oh. ...Oh. Doc says sex is against the rules."
"Fuck your doctor."
Jack smirks, "That'd be against the rules as well."
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The bedroom isn't particularly luxurious, with a brown mattress instead of bed, candles (and city light from outside) instead of electricity, and Jack instead of a hot model.
Yet it is the best than Bruce can imagine. It's true that one's surroundings are influenced by emotion, the same way a foreign city turns distant and cold to a sad tourist, while rich and vivid for a happy one. Jack is a little Gotham trapped inside a humanoid appearance, and Bruce loves Gotham, he loves it more than anyone can understand (except maybe... no. Nobody). Jack lies on the bed, cock hot and heavy between his legs. He's grinning, mouth weaponry, armed and ready for war. They always battle, in one way or another.
He is rebellion.
And Bruce will fuck it out of him.
But it's very unlike a real battle. Too much preparation and gentleness. Lubrication isn't forgotten, nor is discomfort ignored. Pace and position are important factors. Jack murmurs that he thinks this is his first time.
Logically, they shouldn't know each other this well. But fuck logic. Fuck it in the ass.
Bruce thrusts into Jack and watches him unfurl. His spine curl, he fists the sheets, and he grinds himself against Bruce. When he reaches out to touch his face, Jack starts nibbling at his fingers. Jerking him off is truly a privilege.
Hellishly, how fast this blossomed, this new attraction and old lust, because yes, the lust has grown old and dusty, returning tenfold in strength.
They settle on missionary; traditional and face to face. Jack's legs are long and brittle, stretching upwards. Bruce plants burning kisses on his shoulders and chest and face. His hair is sweaty. Sticks against his temple. Both of them are exhausted and dirty, but none of them has hygiene on their mind right now. Slow, sleazy sex fits them perfectly. It is very quiet. Instead of gratuitous moaning and slurping, there is heavy breathing and heartbeats. A new doze of lube leaves Jack shuddering with the momentary cold, which makes them chuckle tiredly. "I like this," Jack admits, helping Bruce reposition.
"Me too," Bruce replies, guttural and low.
He maintains a steady pace until heat builds in his gut, and he quickens (after a mouthed agreement from Jack). Jack takes over on finishing his own orgasm. He likes the feel of Bruce holding him hard, mattress shaking, butt being lifted up so Bruce can fuck into him deeper. Jack spills first, biting his fist bloody not to cry out. Bruce follows, his own orgasm intense but quiet.
They rest in a few minutes, until Jack gets an idea. "I want to blow you," he blurts.
Bruce tries to stop him with a drugged "It's alright" but Jack will have none of it, overwhelmed with desire. He shuts Bruce up with a gasped "I want!" and he echoes himself; want, want, want... It lies thick in the room. Tangible. Bruce feels blood rushing to his dick, letting out an anticipated grunt as Jack moves between Bruce's legs. He's like a scientist, tryingly licking the areas around and on, feeling the beat of Bruce's pulse. He tongues and teethes down the trail of hair until the cock is swollen and throbbing. He almost makes Bruce cry out when he takes it in his mouth.
He stretches out, falling hallway onto the floor in the process. One of his hands move to support himself, the other reaching for Jack and capturing his arm, intervening them. A beautiful shape. With his free hand, he guides Jack's arm to him, sucking on the salty fingers in return. He feels fingernails scraping, looking for something to grab onto as pleasure rocks through him. Electrocution. This'd be a good death. He's panting.
Grinding his teeth.
Humming and fizzling with arousal.
For him, time becomes simple actions and thoughts.
A phantasmagoria of roots, or veins, alive, stretching and moving over him. Greenhouse effects and Ouroboros. Completion.
Jack squeezes the base of his arousal and his whole body spasm, hips writhing. Jack sucks hard. His cheeks hollow out by the sheer force. But it is a single touch, a swift stroke of Jack's thumb over Bruce's parted lips that sends him over the edge.
His mind goes blank.
Still.
When he returns to the world of the living, Jack is wiping spilled cum from his chin and oh god, that's really fucking hot. He has this tiny smile, a bit insecure and awkward, but also a bit devilish and fat-satisfied-cat. They both need a shower. But they're exhausted, and go to bed instead.
They fall asleep with Bruce breathing into the nape of Jack's neck and the city outside their window.
(It isn't until they discover the paparazzi outside the next day that Batman awakens.)
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A/N: Giving you guys smut to make up for the wait.
Some might find it too early in the story, but I like keeping it realistic—despite comic book violence—and I find sex written very boringly/predictably in ff. These are two grown men. Some people have sex on the first date, and yes, a stable relationship can be built up out of it. I don't see Bruce as a prude. Also avoiding rough sex to show the difference between the Jack Bruce and the Batman Joker thing. Opinions are welcome. A few loose ends will be tied up in the next chapter, I believe.