Batman - Dreaming They Lie
Title: Dreaming They Lie
Author: Shaded Mazoku.
Email: herukatto@hotmail.com.
Part: 1/1
Disclaimer: Characters and some background belong to DC comics and Warner Bros. I’m merely playing in their sandbox for a while.
Warnings: None.
Rating: Somewhere in between R and NC-17. NC-17 for safety's sake.
Summary: Bruce is haunted by nightmares. Thankfully, he's not alone...
Pairing(s): Wayne/Crane
Fandom: Batman Begins (though with stolen ideas from the comics to fill out backgrounds)
It seemed to always be raining in Gotham, as though the city had its own personal rain clouds permanently fixed above the skyline. In a way, it was fitting. There were few cities more suited to the gloomy weather than Gotham, where the depression had never really let go of the citizens, and where the tall and proud skyscrapers, in their blatant display of money and splendour most of its crowds would never see, were tearing into the sky itself with their spires. The skies wept for Gotham. Someone had to, and its inhabitants didn't have the time to waste.
Even with a rainstorm angrily rolling over the town, slamming branches of wood against the massive glass windows the city architecture featured so heavily, the little of the city that could actually be seen from the foreboding manor on the hill was dark and quiet, the city's rich sleeping the sound sleep of the ones for whom the comfort of their good lives drowned out the shrill cries of the wind, and the relentless rain pouring down over them. It didn't mean the city was asleep. In the poorer parts of the city, the harsh East End and the near-anarchy of the Narrows, only a few people slept through a rainstorm. A few, lucky people who had carved a place for themselves in the world. Most huddled in the driest spot available, far from windows or doors that might blow open and invite the storm inside. Outside the city, in the new location of Arkham Asylum, moved after the Narrows Riots, more people were awake than asleep, and the air was filled with frantic cries, terrified shrieks and maniacal laughter.
And in the master bedroom of stately Wayne Manor, secretly one of the safest and most solid buildings in the state after its rebuilding was completed, a man lay awake, pretending to be watching the storm thoughtfully.
Not, as might be expected, the Wayne heir. He had returned from his nightly patrol and collapsed into bed, much to the amusement of his bedmate. Jonathan rolled over rather lazily, facing Bruce rather than trying to see what was going on outside, which would have been tricky even if he had been wearing his glasses. It was quite late, nearly five in the morning, if he was to believe the little electronic clock on the bedside table, which he was inclined to do. Bruce Wayne wouldn't own a clock that didn't work properly.
Bruce usually looked younger when he was asleep. Younger and less burdened, though you pretty much had to have a degree in psychology to even begin to notice the burdens when he was playing his playboy persona. But right now, he seemed less than relaxed, frowning and twitching in a way that was a tell-tale sign of a beginning nightmare. His nightmares were frequent, and growing increasingly worse. It was the third time that week, and it was only Thursday.
Jonathan frowned a little, reaching out to stroke through Bruce's hair in what he hoped was a soothing motion. It was obvious to him that the other man had things on his mind that was really bothering him. He supposed Bruce had reasons to have bad dreams, with the things he saw in his other life. He certainly got to see the shadow-side of their fair city. Under the surface, it was a teeming cesspool of corruption, and Bruce was one of the few among the city's richer citizens who ever saw that side of it. Jonathan certainly saw that side all the time. Arkham was filled with inmates who'd succumbed to the darkness of the city. Bruce was stronger than they were, certainly, but even his strength had its limits.
Almost unconsciously, he started humming under his breath as he stroked Bruce's hair softly, slightly amused at how soft his hair was without the styling products he usually used. The melody, Jonathan realized with some bemusement, was his great grandmother's old lullaby. He hadn't thought about that song in years. Not since his great grandmother's untimely demise. It didn't really seem to have much of an effect of any kind. Bruce still twisted and turned as though he was having a spastic fit of some sort. He was making near whimpers in his sleep now, loud enough to catch the attention of anyone passing by, had anyone but Jonathan have been awake.
“Hush,” he told Bruce softly, wriggling into the space between the edge of the bed and Bruce's twitching form. The other man had a somewhat bothersome habit of kicking in his sleep, though under the current circumstances, he could hardly blame him. Nightmares were frightening, after all, and Jonathan knew fear better than anyone. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around Bruce's waist, pressing as close as he could possibly get. It was odd how even after having kicked his sheets off and twitching around like a madman, Bruce was still oddly warm. Snuggling close, he rested his face in the crook of Bruce's neck, lifting one hand to rub his lover's back soothingly, knowing that the motion, and the weight of his body, would help as a grounding against the dream demons.
The trashing did subside, though Bruce still cried out, obviously still tormented by whatever it was that haunted his dreams. Jonathan sighed slightly. Bruce was no good at sharing his fears. He was an extremely repressed individual, a Freudian star example of neurosis gone too far. Nobody without neuroses would have a nightly regime like his. A psychoanalyst would probably say he was too far gone. Thankfully for Bruce, Jonathan was not really big fan of the Freudian school of thought.
When Bruce cried out, something that sounded like a contraction of “father” and “no”, Jonathan knew it was time to wake him before he woke anyone else. Young Tim Drake was in a room not too far from Bruce's, and he was probably better off not running in on his guardian naked in bed with another man. Besides, such terrifying nightmares were not good for the mind in the long run. He didn't want that for Bruce.
“Hush,” Jonathan murmured again, moving his hand from Bruce's back to his chest, tracing one of many scars. “You must wake up,” he continued, pulling back a little to press his lips against his lover's. They were oddly soft, despite the rough conditions they were often exposed to. Jonathan smiled slightly, curling against him again. Kissing Bruce was always nice, though it was but it was far better when he was awake. The man was a very good lover.
Bruce gave a whimpering sound in response, but didn't otherwise stir. Sighing again, Jonathan reached up and shook Bruce's shoulders as roughly as he could manage while twined up into his arms like he was. “No, Bruce,” he told him in a voice not half as stern as he should have been. “You must wake up.”
This time, he did stir, his eyes slowly fluttering open. He made a somewhat confused sound, the disorientation of the recently awoken. “Wha...” He blinked again, no doubt trying to recover his bearings.
Jonathan smiled, and stroked along his jaw. “Hush, Bruce,” he murmured gently, kissing him again. It was definitely more pleasant to do so when Bruce was awake. “You had a nightmare,” he explained softly, keeping up the stroking. Such a handsome man, the Wayne heir. Handsome and strong, as evidenced by the strong arm around his waist, having ended up there almost automatically. “Just a dream, Bruce. There are no dream demons here to get you.” He placed a light kiss on the other man's jawbone as he spoke.
When Bruce blinked again, Jonathan smiled at him, kissing him again, on the neck, this time. Bruce had such wonderful collar bones. They were worth attention. Unlike Jonathan himself, he didn't have a lot of prominent bones, being much more muscled, but the ones that should be visible were, and damned if he didn't look gorgeous. He kept placing kisses along the neck and collar bones, barely resisting the urge to bite playfully at them. At the same time, his hands had roamed south, one stroking circles on the abdomen, the other venturing even further down.
“I'll chase those nightmares away for you,” he promised quietly, licking the hollow between the two collar bones. The sound Bruce made was not particularly coherent, but it certainly wasn't a protest. Jonathan smiled, lifting his head to kiss him again, before lowering it to be on level with Bruce's chest, lavishing proper attention on his lover's nipples. Taking the little groan Bruce made as encouragement, he reached down and wrapped his hand firmly, yet gently, around the awakening erection he found there. Usually, he'd love to draw things out as much as he could, but that wasn't what was needed right now, and he knew it. As he'd expected, it didn't take all that much to get Bruce properly interested, hard and weeping in his hand. Jonathan was good with his hands.
Not, he'd admit, that he was in a much better state, pressed up against his lover with only his hand to separate them. Long and drawn out might be preferable, but sometimes, it wasn't an option. Hooking his leg around Bruce's, he managed somehow to get one hand free, keeping the second one wrapped around Bruce's erection. Sometimes, he was thankful for having the presence of mind to think ahead, and as his fingers found the bottle of lubricant he'd put out for cases like these, this was definitely one of those moments.
It wasn't exactly easy to get himself prepared while still clinging to Bruce, but he managed somehow. In this kind of situation, pretty much anything would be worth it. He took Bruce's arm, placing it somewhat cheekily around his own hips, Bruce's hand resting on his ass. “Come here, then,” he teased playfully, tugging Bruce closer as he rolled over.
He didn't have to ask him twice, as it turned out. Bruce knew just how to handle Jonathan the way he liked, and effectively pinned him to the mattress as he rolled on top of him, following Jonathan's clue. He really was a magnificent lover. Even in a state of being only partially awakened, and still visibly shaken by his terrible dreams, he was still thinking of his partner's pleasure. There wasn't much need for Jonathan to give him any directions at that point, so he contented himself by burying his neck in the crook of Bruce's neck, clinging to him while digging his nails into the broad back underneath his hands, legs twined somewhat awkwardly around Bruce's body.
It was the eternal crux of good sex. It seemed to last for ages and at the same time, it always ended far too soon. Jonathan allowed himself to collapse into the soft mattress, dragging Bruce down on top of him. There had been times when he'd felt almost crushed under the other man's weight, but right now, it was more a comfortable weight than anything. Making a pleased little sound, he twined his arms around Bruce's neck, allowing himself to just relax for a while. Judging by the way his breath had slowed down, into the languid breathing of sleep, Bruce agreed.
They laid like that for well over an hour before Jonathan, though reluctant to do so, wriggled himself out from underneath his lover's warm body. He didn't particularly want to move anywhere, still mellow after the earlier sex, and a little sore, but he didn't really have the option to laze around in bed for much longer. A quick trip to the bathroom yielded a damp towel to clean both himself and Bruce off with, though it took some work to turn the other man over without waking him up. The quick wipe, though, still left him feeling somewhat dirty, so he opted for a more involved cleaning.
He would have loved to steal Bruce's own bathroom, which had the most amazing bathtub and shower combination he'd ever seen, but Bruce would be up soon, having an early morning meeting, and he'd probably need a quick shower himself. Jonathan opted to sneak into the guest bathroom just down the hall, instead. While there were no other guests, there was little point in stomping around as though he owned the place, either. He scooped up his discarded clothing from last night and slipped silently into the guest bathroom.
Unlike Bruce, he had no place he had to be any time soon, so he drew a bath and settled in for a nice, long soak. He might not be able to use Bruce's bathroom, but he'd nicked one of his bottles of shampoo. The stuff was ridiculously expensive, but it smelled gorgeously, and the idea of smelling like his lover for a while, instead of the sterile but cheap smell of his usual shampoo, was decidedly nice. The bath did wonders for his lingering soreness, and the hot water nearly drove him into a sleeping state. When he started sliding into the water, he decided it was time to haul himself out of the tub.
He got dressed pretty quickly, briefly lamenting the fact that he didn't bring a change of clothing. His outfit was clearly made for someone larger and broader than he was. But since it was all he'd brought, he was stuck wearing it. In any case, it wasn't as anyone really cared, and with his history, it wasn't as though he had much of a reputation to worry about, wearing the same outfit two days in a row. It was probably more reason to worry about Bruce's reputation, everything considered.
When Jonathan returned to Bruce's room, the other man had left, as he'd expected. Ever since he'd actively taken control of Wayne Enterprises, he'd been terribly busy. And of course, Jonathan was fairly busy himself, though with quite different things. Bruce rather disliked him meddling in his work, anyway, and the only part of the Wayne empire that was interesting to him was Wayne Chemicals. The rest of it was really dreadfully boring. Jonathan had never had much of a mind for corporate business.
Yawning slightly, though he wasn't sure whether it was from not having slept or from the sheer boredom of paper pushing, he dropped himself carelessly on the pile of fabric that constituted the bed. Bruce was terrible at cleaning. It was a good thing he had his butler, or he'd have a mess on his hands. Jonathan smiled slightly, and leaned in to purposefully dig around behind the headboard. His smile widened as his fingers closed around the cool metal canister.
Pulling the canister out, he quickly checked the pressure gauge. It was nearly empty. He'd have to bring a replacement the next time he came by. It was a shame, though. His new formula was a masterpiece, if he was to say so himself. It only worked during REM sleep, and the previously made vaccine against his gas had no effect. It even had a component making the victim more docile. That particular trick was botany rather than chemistry, result of a trade of secrets with Ivy during a particularly boring week at Arkham. It was only fair, after all. The Bat had made a mess of his mind, and if he wanted to stay lucid, he needed to stay on a cocktail of drugs that did not so pleasant things to his system. He hadn't been able to get any sleep for nearly a week, he had little appetite, and he had been nursing a headache for the same week. A mind for a mind was only fair. He'd argue that his mind was worth more than the Bat's mind, but it was a beginning.
There'd been one flaw in his otherwise so perfect plan, though. He'd not expected that his opponent would be such a interesting playmate. When he'd first tracked the Bat to his cave, he'd been amazed at how blatantly obvious it should have been who was under that mask. It had been oddly easy to track him. A bit of profiling had revealed his penchant for always bringing clues back with him whenever he left, and slipping a tracker into a fake clue had been so easy. Even if Jonathan hadn't been a genius, that was an obvious act. Anyone could watch detective shows. But he'd gotten rather fond of his prey. That, of course, wasn't a good thing, but he couldn't quite bring himself to break of the play and go back to the full vengeance, no matter how much he wanted to see Batman as shattered as he was.
He was getting the Bat and Bruce mixed up, it seemed. Shameful, really. He, of all people, should know that just because two persona used the same body didn't mean they were the same. At least not unless they were as drugged to the non-existent gills as he was. But the drugs were going to wear off soon, and without them, he wasn't going to be lucid enough not to get all tangled up in his own mind. Sighing, he replaced the canister, twisting the dial a little to up the dosage, to a point where the nightmares would me slightly worse.
Next time, he told himself, the way he always did. Next time, he'd put down the finishing touch. Not this time. It was never this time.
When they'd reconstructed the manor, they'd somehow failed to consider the idea that having an façade that was easy enough to scale that even Jonathan could do it with only minor difficulties might not be so smart. And that was despite being in a straitjacket, even if it wasn't a properly tied one. Truthfully, he could probably have sneaked out through the main entrance given enough time, but he figured it was prudent to get out of there before the butler did his daily rounds and discovered the horse Jonathan had left tied up by the shed. Besides, the drugs wouldn't last all that much longer. He did have a rather undignified drop the last few feet, but the only thing bruised was his pride.
The horse was not the police horse he'd first claimed as his own. That one had been taken away by the Batman, or maybe that should be towed. He wasn't sure, and the mere fact that he was thinking like that was definitely a sign that he needed to get back to his shelter before he got any worse. He needed to get some sleep before taking more of his drug. Some sleep, more drugs, and then to make more of his gas.
Working on his chemistry, he found, at least let him keep his mind off of bats, men, and most importantly; batmen. Those were the ones to watch out for. His plan had been without flaw, until the bat had thrown yet another wrench in his clockwork, so to speak.
Whether for vengeance or for pleasure, though, Jonathan would keep coming back. For someone who was considered a genius, he could be awfully stupid at times.
It would be very interesting to see who won this game.
Notes:
1. Tim versus Dick - I have no idea. It just seemed like the logic choice. ...Tim's easier to write? Not that he's even in this...
2. "his great grandmother's lullaby..." If you've read Year One: Scarecrow, you'll realize why this is not a good thing.
3. No, this is not a pathetic excuse for not having written more Oneira at all. I swear. ...OK, it is.
Author: Shaded Mazoku.
Email: herukatto@hotmail.com.
Part: 1/1
Disclaimer: Characters and some background belong to DC comics and Warner Bros. I’m merely playing in their sandbox for a while.
Warnings: None.
Rating: Somewhere in between R and NC-17. NC-17 for safety's sake.
Summary: Bruce is haunted by nightmares. Thankfully, he's not alone...
Pairing(s): Wayne/Crane
Fandom: Batman Begins (though with stolen ideas from the comics to fill out backgrounds)
It seemed to always be raining in Gotham, as though the city had its own personal rain clouds permanently fixed above the skyline. In a way, it was fitting. There were few cities more suited to the gloomy weather than Gotham, where the depression had never really let go of the citizens, and where the tall and proud skyscrapers, in their blatant display of money and splendour most of its crowds would never see, were tearing into the sky itself with their spires. The skies wept for Gotham. Someone had to, and its inhabitants didn't have the time to waste.
Even with a rainstorm angrily rolling over the town, slamming branches of wood against the massive glass windows the city architecture featured so heavily, the little of the city that could actually be seen from the foreboding manor on the hill was dark and quiet, the city's rich sleeping the sound sleep of the ones for whom the comfort of their good lives drowned out the shrill cries of the wind, and the relentless rain pouring down over them. It didn't mean the city was asleep. In the poorer parts of the city, the harsh East End and the near-anarchy of the Narrows, only a few people slept through a rainstorm. A few, lucky people who had carved a place for themselves in the world. Most huddled in the driest spot available, far from windows or doors that might blow open and invite the storm inside. Outside the city, in the new location of Arkham Asylum, moved after the Narrows Riots, more people were awake than asleep, and the air was filled with frantic cries, terrified shrieks and maniacal laughter.
And in the master bedroom of stately Wayne Manor, secretly one of the safest and most solid buildings in the state after its rebuilding was completed, a man lay awake, pretending to be watching the storm thoughtfully.
Not, as might be expected, the Wayne heir. He had returned from his nightly patrol and collapsed into bed, much to the amusement of his bedmate. Jonathan rolled over rather lazily, facing Bruce rather than trying to see what was going on outside, which would have been tricky even if he had been wearing his glasses. It was quite late, nearly five in the morning, if he was to believe the little electronic clock on the bedside table, which he was inclined to do. Bruce Wayne wouldn't own a clock that didn't work properly.
Bruce usually looked younger when he was asleep. Younger and less burdened, though you pretty much had to have a degree in psychology to even begin to notice the burdens when he was playing his playboy persona. But right now, he seemed less than relaxed, frowning and twitching in a way that was a tell-tale sign of a beginning nightmare. His nightmares were frequent, and growing increasingly worse. It was the third time that week, and it was only Thursday.
Jonathan frowned a little, reaching out to stroke through Bruce's hair in what he hoped was a soothing motion. It was obvious to him that the other man had things on his mind that was really bothering him. He supposed Bruce had reasons to have bad dreams, with the things he saw in his other life. He certainly got to see the shadow-side of their fair city. Under the surface, it was a teeming cesspool of corruption, and Bruce was one of the few among the city's richer citizens who ever saw that side of it. Jonathan certainly saw that side all the time. Arkham was filled with inmates who'd succumbed to the darkness of the city. Bruce was stronger than they were, certainly, but even his strength had its limits.
Almost unconsciously, he started humming under his breath as he stroked Bruce's hair softly, slightly amused at how soft his hair was without the styling products he usually used. The melody, Jonathan realized with some bemusement, was his great grandmother's old lullaby. He hadn't thought about that song in years. Not since his great grandmother's untimely demise. It didn't really seem to have much of an effect of any kind. Bruce still twisted and turned as though he was having a spastic fit of some sort. He was making near whimpers in his sleep now, loud enough to catch the attention of anyone passing by, had anyone but Jonathan have been awake.
“Hush,” he told Bruce softly, wriggling into the space between the edge of the bed and Bruce's twitching form. The other man had a somewhat bothersome habit of kicking in his sleep, though under the current circumstances, he could hardly blame him. Nightmares were frightening, after all, and Jonathan knew fear better than anyone. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around Bruce's waist, pressing as close as he could possibly get. It was odd how even after having kicked his sheets off and twitching around like a madman, Bruce was still oddly warm. Snuggling close, he rested his face in the crook of Bruce's neck, lifting one hand to rub his lover's back soothingly, knowing that the motion, and the weight of his body, would help as a grounding against the dream demons.
The trashing did subside, though Bruce still cried out, obviously still tormented by whatever it was that haunted his dreams. Jonathan sighed slightly. Bruce was no good at sharing his fears. He was an extremely repressed individual, a Freudian star example of neurosis gone too far. Nobody without neuroses would have a nightly regime like his. A psychoanalyst would probably say he was too far gone. Thankfully for Bruce, Jonathan was not really big fan of the Freudian school of thought.
When Bruce cried out, something that sounded like a contraction of “father” and “no”, Jonathan knew it was time to wake him before he woke anyone else. Young Tim Drake was in a room not too far from Bruce's, and he was probably better off not running in on his guardian naked in bed with another man. Besides, such terrifying nightmares were not good for the mind in the long run. He didn't want that for Bruce.
“Hush,” Jonathan murmured again, moving his hand from Bruce's back to his chest, tracing one of many scars. “You must wake up,” he continued, pulling back a little to press his lips against his lover's. They were oddly soft, despite the rough conditions they were often exposed to. Jonathan smiled slightly, curling against him again. Kissing Bruce was always nice, though it was but it was far better when he was awake. The man was a very good lover.
Bruce gave a whimpering sound in response, but didn't otherwise stir. Sighing again, Jonathan reached up and shook Bruce's shoulders as roughly as he could manage while twined up into his arms like he was. “No, Bruce,” he told him in a voice not half as stern as he should have been. “You must wake up.”
This time, he did stir, his eyes slowly fluttering open. He made a somewhat confused sound, the disorientation of the recently awoken. “Wha...” He blinked again, no doubt trying to recover his bearings.
Jonathan smiled, and stroked along his jaw. “Hush, Bruce,” he murmured gently, kissing him again. It was definitely more pleasant to do so when Bruce was awake. “You had a nightmare,” he explained softly, keeping up the stroking. Such a handsome man, the Wayne heir. Handsome and strong, as evidenced by the strong arm around his waist, having ended up there almost automatically. “Just a dream, Bruce. There are no dream demons here to get you.” He placed a light kiss on the other man's jawbone as he spoke.
When Bruce blinked again, Jonathan smiled at him, kissing him again, on the neck, this time. Bruce had such wonderful collar bones. They were worth attention. Unlike Jonathan himself, he didn't have a lot of prominent bones, being much more muscled, but the ones that should be visible were, and damned if he didn't look gorgeous. He kept placing kisses along the neck and collar bones, barely resisting the urge to bite playfully at them. At the same time, his hands had roamed south, one stroking circles on the abdomen, the other venturing even further down.
“I'll chase those nightmares away for you,” he promised quietly, licking the hollow between the two collar bones. The sound Bruce made was not particularly coherent, but it certainly wasn't a protest. Jonathan smiled, lifting his head to kiss him again, before lowering it to be on level with Bruce's chest, lavishing proper attention on his lover's nipples. Taking the little groan Bruce made as encouragement, he reached down and wrapped his hand firmly, yet gently, around the awakening erection he found there. Usually, he'd love to draw things out as much as he could, but that wasn't what was needed right now, and he knew it. As he'd expected, it didn't take all that much to get Bruce properly interested, hard and weeping in his hand. Jonathan was good with his hands.
Not, he'd admit, that he was in a much better state, pressed up against his lover with only his hand to separate them. Long and drawn out might be preferable, but sometimes, it wasn't an option. Hooking his leg around Bruce's, he managed somehow to get one hand free, keeping the second one wrapped around Bruce's erection. Sometimes, he was thankful for having the presence of mind to think ahead, and as his fingers found the bottle of lubricant he'd put out for cases like these, this was definitely one of those moments.
It wasn't exactly easy to get himself prepared while still clinging to Bruce, but he managed somehow. In this kind of situation, pretty much anything would be worth it. He took Bruce's arm, placing it somewhat cheekily around his own hips, Bruce's hand resting on his ass. “Come here, then,” he teased playfully, tugging Bruce closer as he rolled over.
He didn't have to ask him twice, as it turned out. Bruce knew just how to handle Jonathan the way he liked, and effectively pinned him to the mattress as he rolled on top of him, following Jonathan's clue. He really was a magnificent lover. Even in a state of being only partially awakened, and still visibly shaken by his terrible dreams, he was still thinking of his partner's pleasure. There wasn't much need for Jonathan to give him any directions at that point, so he contented himself by burying his neck in the crook of Bruce's neck, clinging to him while digging his nails into the broad back underneath his hands, legs twined somewhat awkwardly around Bruce's body.
It was the eternal crux of good sex. It seemed to last for ages and at the same time, it always ended far too soon. Jonathan allowed himself to collapse into the soft mattress, dragging Bruce down on top of him. There had been times when he'd felt almost crushed under the other man's weight, but right now, it was more a comfortable weight than anything. Making a pleased little sound, he twined his arms around Bruce's neck, allowing himself to just relax for a while. Judging by the way his breath had slowed down, into the languid breathing of sleep, Bruce agreed.
They laid like that for well over an hour before Jonathan, though reluctant to do so, wriggled himself out from underneath his lover's warm body. He didn't particularly want to move anywhere, still mellow after the earlier sex, and a little sore, but he didn't really have the option to laze around in bed for much longer. A quick trip to the bathroom yielded a damp towel to clean both himself and Bruce off with, though it took some work to turn the other man over without waking him up. The quick wipe, though, still left him feeling somewhat dirty, so he opted for a more involved cleaning.
He would have loved to steal Bruce's own bathroom, which had the most amazing bathtub and shower combination he'd ever seen, but Bruce would be up soon, having an early morning meeting, and he'd probably need a quick shower himself. Jonathan opted to sneak into the guest bathroom just down the hall, instead. While there were no other guests, there was little point in stomping around as though he owned the place, either. He scooped up his discarded clothing from last night and slipped silently into the guest bathroom.
Unlike Bruce, he had no place he had to be any time soon, so he drew a bath and settled in for a nice, long soak. He might not be able to use Bruce's bathroom, but he'd nicked one of his bottles of shampoo. The stuff was ridiculously expensive, but it smelled gorgeously, and the idea of smelling like his lover for a while, instead of the sterile but cheap smell of his usual shampoo, was decidedly nice. The bath did wonders for his lingering soreness, and the hot water nearly drove him into a sleeping state. When he started sliding into the water, he decided it was time to haul himself out of the tub.
He got dressed pretty quickly, briefly lamenting the fact that he didn't bring a change of clothing. His outfit was clearly made for someone larger and broader than he was. But since it was all he'd brought, he was stuck wearing it. In any case, it wasn't as anyone really cared, and with his history, it wasn't as though he had much of a reputation to worry about, wearing the same outfit two days in a row. It was probably more reason to worry about Bruce's reputation, everything considered.
When Jonathan returned to Bruce's room, the other man had left, as he'd expected. Ever since he'd actively taken control of Wayne Enterprises, he'd been terribly busy. And of course, Jonathan was fairly busy himself, though with quite different things. Bruce rather disliked him meddling in his work, anyway, and the only part of the Wayne empire that was interesting to him was Wayne Chemicals. The rest of it was really dreadfully boring. Jonathan had never had much of a mind for corporate business.
Yawning slightly, though he wasn't sure whether it was from not having slept or from the sheer boredom of paper pushing, he dropped himself carelessly on the pile of fabric that constituted the bed. Bruce was terrible at cleaning. It was a good thing he had his butler, or he'd have a mess on his hands. Jonathan smiled slightly, and leaned in to purposefully dig around behind the headboard. His smile widened as his fingers closed around the cool metal canister.
Pulling the canister out, he quickly checked the pressure gauge. It was nearly empty. He'd have to bring a replacement the next time he came by. It was a shame, though. His new formula was a masterpiece, if he was to say so himself. It only worked during REM sleep, and the previously made vaccine against his gas had no effect. It even had a component making the victim more docile. That particular trick was botany rather than chemistry, result of a trade of secrets with Ivy during a particularly boring week at Arkham. It was only fair, after all. The Bat had made a mess of his mind, and if he wanted to stay lucid, he needed to stay on a cocktail of drugs that did not so pleasant things to his system. He hadn't been able to get any sleep for nearly a week, he had little appetite, and he had been nursing a headache for the same week. A mind for a mind was only fair. He'd argue that his mind was worth more than the Bat's mind, but it was a beginning.
There'd been one flaw in his otherwise so perfect plan, though. He'd not expected that his opponent would be such a interesting playmate. When he'd first tracked the Bat to his cave, he'd been amazed at how blatantly obvious it should have been who was under that mask. It had been oddly easy to track him. A bit of profiling had revealed his penchant for always bringing clues back with him whenever he left, and slipping a tracker into a fake clue had been so easy. Even if Jonathan hadn't been a genius, that was an obvious act. Anyone could watch detective shows. But he'd gotten rather fond of his prey. That, of course, wasn't a good thing, but he couldn't quite bring himself to break of the play and go back to the full vengeance, no matter how much he wanted to see Batman as shattered as he was.
He was getting the Bat and Bruce mixed up, it seemed. Shameful, really. He, of all people, should know that just because two persona used the same body didn't mean they were the same. At least not unless they were as drugged to the non-existent gills as he was. But the drugs were going to wear off soon, and without them, he wasn't going to be lucid enough not to get all tangled up in his own mind. Sighing, he replaced the canister, twisting the dial a little to up the dosage, to a point where the nightmares would me slightly worse.
Next time, he told himself, the way he always did. Next time, he'd put down the finishing touch. Not this time. It was never this time.
When they'd reconstructed the manor, they'd somehow failed to consider the idea that having an façade that was easy enough to scale that even Jonathan could do it with only minor difficulties might not be so smart. And that was despite being in a straitjacket, even if it wasn't a properly tied one. Truthfully, he could probably have sneaked out through the main entrance given enough time, but he figured it was prudent to get out of there before the butler did his daily rounds and discovered the horse Jonathan had left tied up by the shed. Besides, the drugs wouldn't last all that much longer. He did have a rather undignified drop the last few feet, but the only thing bruised was his pride.
The horse was not the police horse he'd first claimed as his own. That one had been taken away by the Batman, or maybe that should be towed. He wasn't sure, and the mere fact that he was thinking like that was definitely a sign that he needed to get back to his shelter before he got any worse. He needed to get some sleep before taking more of his drug. Some sleep, more drugs, and then to make more of his gas.
Working on his chemistry, he found, at least let him keep his mind off of bats, men, and most importantly; batmen. Those were the ones to watch out for. His plan had been without flaw, until the bat had thrown yet another wrench in his clockwork, so to speak.
Whether for vengeance or for pleasure, though, Jonathan would keep coming back. For someone who was considered a genius, he could be awfully stupid at times.
It would be very interesting to see who won this game.
Notes:
1. Tim versus Dick - I have no idea. It just seemed like the logic choice. ...Tim's easier to write? Not that he's even in this...
2. "his great grandmother's lullaby..." If you've read Year One: Scarecrow, you'll realize why this is not a good thing.
3. No, this is not a pathetic excuse for not having written more Oneira at all. I swear. ...OK, it is.