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Those Who Fall Down the Rabbit Hole | Batjokes |

Fanfic

A clown and a bat, sitting in a cell/ sitting in a mental hospital/ sitting in a rooftop T-a-l-k-i-n-g. The kissing will come later. - Prepare yourselves for a grey Bruce, that's all I'm sayin'. Oh, and for future smut, that too. This is a re-write...

#batjokes #batmanfanfiction #batmanxjoker #gay #psychological #romance #slowburn #slowupdates

Part 3

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by Jae201

by Jae201

In front of him stands a mirror image. Of whom, he does not know. Grey suit, bowler hat and tie— the personification of societal perfection. The figure stands there, as still as a mannequin. As dead as they come. Dead while alive.

Bruce would feel pity for the man weren't it for that apple that stands in front of the figure's face, blocking it from view.

The green fruit hangs from nothing— mocking Bruce, making his skin crawl, his teeth grind together.

"He has no face as long I am here"

"He's not here as long as I am"

It says. And Bruce can't do anything else but reach out to it. To yank it out of the way, to let him see.

He might be scared to see who's behind that apple. But he has to know.

He needs to see the face.

But that fucking apple is on the way.

Well then, who are you?

Warm fingertips brush the cold core of the fruit, calm rage guiding Bruce's actions.

I am...

With the blow of a wind, what's visible of the face turns to raw muscle, sleek tendons, devoid of skin. And the mocking green apple disappears, being replaced by a beating heart. The man is no longer a man, if he ever was, he's something better. Higher. For his neat suit is tainted by red, and his soul has been taken out of his chest.

Metamorphoses.

I am...

Who with such power

Who with such vision

Can see past the visible

And see more.

I am...

The soft tissue touching Bruce's fingertips beats a calming rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump. And blood drips from the muscle to the floor, with each passing drop Bruce's rage completely dissolves. His eyes now glued to the masterpiece in front of him.

Oh, he thinks, as he slowly retracts his hand.

I am...

"The spirit of perpetual negation."

Who.

Who can see?

For all that comes to be...

"Deserves to perish wretchedly"

Bruce lays on the floor, eyes closed. His body isn't his, as isn't his voice. He's at peace, with the pool of red coming from the body next to him, soaking him in its grandeur.

He's at peace, not having seen the face, for it isn't him. For in its beauty, it is separate. For the apple isn't in his eyes,

It is in theirs.

He smiles.

Who.

Who can see?

He, he who's seen

Hell.

I am...

"The part of the part that once was..."

Everything.

I am...

Part of the darkness,

From which Light disputed the highest place

With its mother Night,

The bounds of Space,

And yet won

"Nothing"

However hard it tried.

I am...

The spirit that denies,

That which you call Sin,

Destruction,

A part.

I am that still stuck to Bodily Things,

And so denied.

It flows from bodies, which it beautifies,

And bodies block its way.

Bruce breaths, because he's alive. As he hadn't been. As he won't be.

Because that apple will be there when he opens his eyes.

He won't have a face.

Yet again.

I am...

He who sees and sees more.

Why?