A Colony of Bats, A Murder of Crows

Chapter 1: A Colony of Bats

Bruce dreams of bats. Dark, leathery wings flitting against his subconscious. And it is not only at night that they come. In the middle of a meeting, ordering food, driving down the street, they appear and swarm around him like they did when he fell in the well. For a moment, just a moment, his hands slip on the wheel or door handle or whatever he is holding onto. Then he reigns himself in, takes a breath, and another, and another, until he banishes the memory from his mind. And he’s fine -- until the next time it happens.

When it happens again tonight, driving back from the office, he is not as ready. It has only been a week since Ducard tried to destroy the city. Not long enough to heal, not nearly long enough. A whole lifetime wouldn’t be long enough to cure the wound in his soul. It has been there since his childhood, a small tear that was ripped wide open by the murder of his parents. It’s only grown bigger with the passing years and his rising bitterness. He tries to close it, to lay bandages over it and draw them tight so that he won’t bleed anymore, but every time, clawed fingers will poke and scratch and tear it open once more. Ducard -- the man who had set him on the path to healing and shown him his path, albeit unwittingly -- had done precisely that just when he most needed to be whole. Bruce had been blind, blind to what was just in front of his eyes. And he still is blind, always unable to see beyond the shadows shrouding his spirit.

The bats come again, scratching at the back of his mind. He lifts his foot off the accelerator, slowing down enough so that the street he is driving on is not just a blur in his window. Just enough to see an unusual figure as he glances to his right. One wearing what looks suspiciously like a straightjacket. And the face of the man who’d been Ducard’s pawn in last week’s poisonings.

Bruce stops the car. Oddly, he doesn’t feel any qualms about leaving it in the middle of the street or about the fact that he is dressed like Bruce Wayne and not Batman. All he cares about is catching Crane and making sure that he doesn’t slip away again.

There’s no need to run but he does it anyway. Crane is stumbling along, his hands scrabbling at the walls as he walks. He doesn’t even turn his head until Bruce grabs his right arm, wrenching it behind him, and pushes him hard against the wall face first, trapping his other arm against his body. Crane cries out in pain. He twists his head around frantically, trying to look behind him. When he sees Bruce, his mouth goes wide with a terror Bruce has seen before in his own eyes. He’s a wounded, cornered animal who watches the lion closing in, knowing he has nowhere to run. His breath quickens, shallow breaths rattling in his thin frame. Bruce presses him harder against the wall, containing his panicked struggles. Crane’s eyes don’t leave his face. Bruce forces himself to look into them, at the fear he placed there. He realizes now that he broke him, made him a puppet to his own poison and delusional mind. Bruce doesn’t feel sorry for that, not for the man who had done the same to Rachel and to half of Gotham. Not for the man who’d set him on fire as the bats covered him in the dark. This trembling, pathetic creature in his arms deserves to feel the full weight of what he has done.

Holding tightly to Crane’s right arm with his right hand, he pulls Crane’s left arm tight around his torso so that his hand is lying over his lower back. He does the same with the other arm. He works quickly to fasten the sleeves properly, but Crane struggles with renewed enthusiasm, managing to lift his left shoulder off the wall. Bruce throws him roughly to the ground. Crane falls on his side; Bruce hears a dull thud as his head hits the ground. Crouching, Bruce turns him over onto his back and pulls at the leather straps, fastening them around Crane’s arms. He looks up at Crane’s face, sees a small gash on his forehead, a fresh rivulet of blood descending down his face. Bruce looks into his startlingly blue eyes, into the pulsing, consuming fear he’s created and he pauses. He sees himself, the creature he aimed to become, the creature he has become. The criminals’ own walking nightmare. The monster they all fear.

There is a change in Crane’s eyes, a trace of lucidity that is more unnerving than his naked fear.

"The bat man."

Crane speaks slowly, clearly enunciating each word. He giggles madly, chilling Bruce’s bones. He couldn’t have heard right; there‘s no way Crane can know that, none at all. Digging his fingers into Crane’s shoulders, he lifts him partly off the ground.

"What did you just say?" he demands in his steely Batman growl.

Crane just keeps on smiling like the lunatic that he is, with a Cheshire cat grin that might make other men fear for their sanity. But Bruce is not about to let himself be intimidated by this wretch.

"You’re the bat man," Crane repeats, the light of insanity in his eyes growing with every word.

Bruce punches him across his insolent face, but Crane just keeps on grinning through his split lip.

"The bat man rapping at my chamber door."

"Shut up," Bruce growls again, desperation creeping up his skin.

"The prince of Gotham is the bat man."

Bruce punches him again, harder this time. He doesn’t want to hear him speak, to feel the words crawling in his skin, splitting him open inch by inch. Doesn’t want to see those impossibly luminous eyes looking into his naked soul. He harshly pulls him forward by the collar until their faces are only a few inches apart.

"I said, 'Shut the fuck up.'"

Crane is trembling, his breath shallow and uneven, his eyes staring wildly at Bruce. Bruce likes it. He likes making a creature such as this suffer. He enjoys hitting him, bruising him, splitting him open the way that Crane is splitting him. The way Ducard broke him after stitching him back together. He has been broken, glued together and broken again so many times that is soul is an endless expanse of scars, one laid over the other. It is pain, constant pain, that rises and ebbs like the tide, yet is always there, not letting him rest, not letting him breathe, not allowing him a moment of true happiness. Happiness isn’t meant for those such as him, he realizes that now. He is not like other people. He may dance in their shoes and act the part well enough that those who see him don’t notice the difference, but he can’t be like them. He can never be. Let them have their light. Bruce belongs in the darkness that covers Gotham like a winter cloak. He belongs among the pain and the suffering of all those lost souls who wander its streets with no place to call home. He belongs with the sweat and the blood and the poison that is choking the city to death.

Crane shifts in Bruce’s grip, raising his chin and looking at him steadily.

"No," he says, his voice strong.

That is all: just one word and Bruce can feel his anger crawling up from his belly and his fingers tightening on Crane’s flesh. This simple act of defiance is more than Bruce is willing to tolerate. He wants to make him scream, to hear him beg, to see those pretty lips parted in supplication. The strength of his reaction and the excitement flooding his veins surprises him.

Crane moves abruptly and Bruce feels something hard rub against his leg. He looks down and sees a rather prominent bulge in Crane’s trousers. Bruce freezes in shock. What the hell? Crane moves again. Bruce quickly drops him, backing away.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He’s angry, he’s furious, he wants to beat Crane until he can’t speak -- and why does he feel his excitement actually growing?

"I thought you wanted me to stay quiet, Bruce," Crane answers with a smug satisfaction that Bruce doesn’t comprehend.

Incensed at Crane’s audacity at using his first name, Bruce grabs him by the hair and pulls his head back onto the floor. Crane’s face twists in pain, but Bruce doesn’t loosen his grip.

"Don’t call me that."

Despite the discomfort it must cause, Crane fixes his blue eyes on him.

"What’s the matter? You don’t like your name?"

Bruce leans in closer, making sure he is all Crane sees.

"I don’t like hearing it from your mouth."

Crane’s mad smile becomes more reckless.

"What would you rather, bat man?"

He says the last slowly, as if he is savoring each syllable. It is a challenge, a dare, designed to push Bruce beyond the edge of sense and sanity. Then again, if he were using sense he wouldn’t still be holding Crane in a smelly, filthy alley. As for sanity, it had been squashed a long time ago. Bruce doesn’t think anymore; it’s becoming increasingly difficult to form a coherent thought. He hears the trembling in Crane’s breath, sees his body bound and vulnerable, completely helpless in his grip, his to use, his to mark. Crane is already begging with something far more compelling than words. Bruce stares hard into Crane’s eyes. There it is, just below the shaky self-assurance: need, desire, and absolute terror.

It comes over Bruce quicker than a freak storm.

Pulling Crane’s head forward, Bruce kisses him. He bites Crane’s full lips, bringing the lower one into his mouth and pressing down with his teeth until it bleeds red on his tongue. He tastes the heat, the desire, the submission and it is absolutely intoxicating. Crane refuses to lie quietly; he returns the kiss and the bites and the blood. Bruce feels the sting of teeth on his tongue, he tastes it on his lips. His blood, Crane’s blood -- it's all the same now. Keeping Crane’s head immobile with his hand, Bruce ravages that sweet mouth and drinks his fill until air becomes too painful a necessity and he lifts his head to breathe.

Blood is smudged all over Crane’s open mouth; Bruce tastes it on his own lips. He sees a bead of sweat clinging to Crane’s eyelashes, watches it descend slowly down the side of his face like a teardrop. He feels the firm, wanting body beneath his own hardness. Crane’s eyes beckon him, begging.

Bruce scoots back until he is over Crane’s legs. He yanks at his shoes, his socks, his trousers, his underwear until everything is off and Crane lies perfectly naked from the waist down, cock erect between his splayed legs, waiting for him. Bruce pulls down his own trousers low enough to free himself. Licking his palm generously, he slicks himself as best he can.

He falls between Crane‘s legs, lifting the left one onto his shoulder. Crane wraps the other around his waist. In the same swift movement, he thrusts deep into Crane’s body. Tight, so fucking, deliciously tight. Bruce closes his eyes for a moment and lies still, his breath rapid. Opening his eyes, he sees that Crane’s own eyes are closed, his mouth open in a wordless cry. He’s in pain. A stab of guilt breaks through the haze in Bruce’s mind, never mind that this man set him on fire. He waits as Crane shifts around him and the grimace on his face smoothes out. His arms brush Bruce’s chest with each shallow breath. Crane’s eyes open from behind moist eyelashes and Bruce is struck by the vulnerability in them. Beautiful, Crane is absolutely beautiful. Slowly, he blinks and his eyes focus. His leg tightens on Bruce’s waist.

"Come on then," he demands breathlessly.

It’s a dare, a challenge, that’s all everything between them has been, a series of challenges where only one can be the victor. Well, Bruce is not about to back down now. He moves back, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in. He hears the beginning of a cry this time, but it is hastily bitten off. Bruce keeps moving, picking up the pace faster and faster and he is thrusting as quickly and as hard as he can and it feels so fucking good but it is not fast enough. Crane’s leg is like a vice on his back, pulling him forward. His erection rubs persistently against Bruce’s belly, but he ignores it. Crane is arching up, trying to have some control over their movements, but Bruce isn’t letting him. He wants Crane to beg him for his release, wants those pretty eyes bright with supplication, wants that bloodied mouth to scream it out before he’ll touch him.

A week earlier he would have balked at the dark desire coursing through him but that was then and this is now, and now he knows that the face he shows the world is the real mask. Bruce Wayne and Batman are both facades. What he really is is this dark creature without a name that wants and craves what he cannot have: peace. But peace is not possible, not in this world with its acrid smoke and its broken mirrors turning into giant bats flying in his consciousness. He belongs in the dark. It is where he has been since the death of his parents, when they were wrenched so cruelly from his life. The light and joy that existed before is nothing more than a faded memory, an old photograph withering away in his mind. This dark, broken world is his home now.

He thrusts faster into Crane, this dark creature whom he should hate were he not reflected so keenly in his eyes. He has tasted Crane’s darkness, feels it right know, burning in him like a fever, maddening, intoxicating, unbearable. He can’t hold Crane’s wild, broken gaze any longer. Lowering his head, he buries his head against Crane’s throat, licks his warm skin, tastes the sweat shimmering there. Crane’s breath shudders beneath his tongue: quick, shallow panting bordering on a full on cry, but never quite making it there. Bracing himself on his left arm, he clutches Crane’s right hip and lifts it, changing the angle. He feels Crane’s startled shout built against his mouth and smiles when it finally bursts forth. It’s one of the most satisfying sounds he’s heard in his life. A fresh shout greets him every time he thrusts into that sweet body, each growing louder and louder than the last. Bruce won’t last much longer at this rate. A few more thrusts and he comes hard, biting Crane’s neck, marking him as his. He stills and simply lies on top of him for a minute, enjoying the press of his warm body.

Too soon, Crane wriggles beneath him, pushing and prodding at him. He’s not forgotten Crane’s erection; it's impossible to ignore the way that it is pressed against his stomach. But he’s not about to let him have what he wants so easily. He pushes down Crane’s hips, halting his anxious movements. Crane actually growls at him in frustration.

"Damn you, Batman, make me come already or let me go so I can do it myself."

Lifting his head, Bruce looks down at Crane. Oh, but he is desperate, that is easy to see. His face is flushed, his lips raw and red, his eyes glaring with hot, angry need.

Bruce makes sure his face is as hard and inflexible as stone when he speaks.

"Ask again."

Crane shakes his head, pressing his lips together, stubborn to the last.

"I won’t beg."

Bruce leans in close enough to feel Crane’s fevered breath on his skin. Crane’s eyes waver and his breath shakes, already breaking.

"Yes, you will."

With this, Bruce pulls out of him and sits back. Crane gasps, biting his lip; Bruce sees blood flow anew on his teeth. Stubborn little bastard that he is, Crane persists in ignoring his request. Instead, he lifts his leg and tries badly to stroke himself with it. Bruce grabs the wayward leg and pushes it back down. He does the same with the other leg and holds them firmly, not giving him the chance to do anything but lie there and say what Bruce wants to hear.

Crane closes his eyes, his lips forming a small, muffled word that Bruce can’t hear. He leans in closer.

"What was that?"

"Please, jack me off already, Batman, please," Crane cries out, his voice breaking.

He sounds so small, so helpless and needing what only Bruce can give him. It is exactly what Bruce wants to hear. Crane utters a small sob as Bruce wraps his fingers firmly around his cock and strokes him, squeezing at the base and rubbing the tip with his thumb before coming back down. He doesn’t go too quickly; he wants him to last a little longer. He looks at Crane as he touches him; his eyes are scrunched shut, his mouth open in a steady stream of short, panted cries. The bite mark is bright on his throat despite the low light. Red, raw, reflection of Bruce’s darkness. Crane comes soon, spurting all over his straightjacket and Bruce’s hand. He sinks back on the floor, breathing heavily.

Taking some napkins from his pocket, he cleans himself and Crane as best he can. After zipping up his trousers, he picks up Crane’s boxers and draws them over his legs, pulling them up until he reaches his hips.

"Lift your hips," he says.

Crane doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even move.

"I can do that myself," he says tiredly, offering only a shadow of his old resistance.

"Well, I’m not about to let you loose just so you can do it yourself, so lift your hips."

With infinite slowness, Crane opens his eyes. Bruce sees exhaustion and resignation and something he cannot decipher. Without a word, Crane turns his head to the side, but he plants his feet on the floor, lifting his hips. Bruce dresses him swiftly, feeling a bit as if he is dressing an oversize doll. Crane doesn’t react to anything he does. He just stares at the wall, his eyes glazed over with some private vision. He shivers suddenly and squeezes his mouth, his face tense. His breath speeds up, shallow, pained breaths. Frightened breaths. Always frightened, Bruce realizes. He wonders what it is that Crane sees when he looks at him. He remembers the maggots crawling over Crane’s burlap covered face, the bats swarming around him, scratching his body, snatching at his eyes, biting his skin, invading every vulnerable corner of his being. He is naked and helpless in the dark and the void is eating him whole. Is this what Crane sees when he trembles? When his eyes become wide and scared and he seems to shrink into himself?

Gently placing his hand on Crane’s cheek, he turns his face away from the wall. There is a flicker, something changes as Crane gazes at him. What is hiding behind these mysterious blue eyes? What secret lies there? He brushes his thumb over Crane’s lower lip. Crane’s breath catches, but he doesn’t move. Bruce grazes an open cut, smearing fresh blood on his finger. Blood he can taste on the corner of his mouth. Slowly, he pulls his hand away.

Half standing on one knee, he places his hands on Crane’s shoulders, pulling him up.

"Get up," he says quietly.

Surprisingly, Crane complies without complaint, but his eyes don’t stray from Bruce’s face. Bruce pulls him to his feet and forces him forward, his arm tight around his torso. Walking is far easier than carrying him and if he tries to run, he won’t get far. Crane follows docilely, his face turned toward the ground, but he doesn’t appear to be minding his steps, for he stumbles a couple of times. He falls heavily against Bruce, who takes a moment to enjoy the warm press of his body before righting him.

He is amazed that the car is still there considering what part of town this is. Opening the passenger door, he helps Crane climb inside. He fastens the seatbelt, pulling it tight around Crane’s waist. Throughout all this, Crane hasn’t looked at him. Bruce grabs his chin and turns his head toward him.

"I know I’m not going to need any more restraints, am I?"

He makes it a warning, a threat, hoping to get some reaction from him, something other than this odd silence and those eerie eyes staring back at him. Crane doesn’t cooperate; he just stares with a cool disregard that unnerves Bruce. But it is not the truth: Crane is still weak. His breath is shaky and his pulse is quick and erratic under Bruce’s palm.

Bruce steps back and shuts the door.

It’s not until this moment, as he opens the driver’s door, climbs in, and starts the car that he begins to actually think about what he is doing. Crane is a dangerous fugitive who’s poisoned hundreds, has cost him a considerable amount of headaches, is certifiably insane, knows precisely who and what Bruce is, and Bruce has just fucked him in a filthy alley as he made him bleed. What is he supposed to do with him? Arkham is out of the question. If he talks and someone actually believes him, Bruce would be in serious trouble. But these are all practical considerations, not the truth -- not if he is really honest with himself. He doesn’t want Crane in the custody of white-coated orderlies and steel walls where Bruce can’t get to him. He wants him in his bed (or against the cave wall or on the floor, he isn’t picky) where he'll fuck him again and again, watching the blood flow on his pale skin, licking his smooth flesh and tasting the darkness on his tongue.

"Where are you taking me?" Crane asks, his voice a soft whisper in the silent night.

"The cave," Bruce says simply.

There’s a long minute of silence as Bruce waits for Crane to figure it out.

"Are you going to keep me?"

Crane’s tone has changed; he sounds almost amused. Bruce glances at him from the corner of his eye. Crane is lying against the seat, head rolling on the headrest, watching him. His skin gleams in the streetlight, exposing the cut on his forehead, the blood on his mouth, the bite on his throat. The dark being in Bruce’s soul growls. Oh yes, he will keep him.