#batjokesmultichoice

Hey everyone, it’s Alex. I’m super sorry for disappearing again for about… a month. To make it up to you, the Multiple Choice contest will be extended until April 15th. We highly recommend everyone who hasn’t already submitted to do so, and anyone who feels like giving it one more go to try that as well.

Christmas spirit is what filled Gotham in the streets. Carols rang out, echoing the corners of the grimey streets and dumpster corners. Small flakes of snow filled the atmosphere of the grey city. A blanket of white covered it's sins.

"Bruce..." The blond man lying next to the man whispers. "Yeah..?" Bruce asks. Turning back and wrapping the shaggy blanket around him. They were both sharing a ragged, chewed and old blanket. "It's, uh, extra cold this year." Jack looks him in the eye. "You think we'll make it?"

Bruce kisses him. Soft, frostbitten lips on soft, frostbitten lips. They breath out, white mist blocking their vision but not their smile. "We'll always make it." He whispers. Losing his job and living out on the streets is far from the easiest thing to do, but meeting Jack has made it much, much more worth it. When he was curling up in the snow all those years ago, it was Jack who showed up and reached out.

"Mmh..." Jack leans into Bruce, trying to acquire some heat. They've both learnt so much from each other. Bruce did not approve, at first of his stealing and disputes with the others inhibiting their street, but after so many arguments and hair-tearing make up sex- they learnt-

The snow continues to fall. A small breeze, chilling and bound to pick up, tears through the air like a shrill, silent scream. Bruce sighs and turns to the side. Yesterday they made snow angels. They were still there, but slightly misshaped, being slowly filled in by the snow.

“Yeah...we will." Jack says. He knows the weather will get worse. It always gets worse. They barely made it out alive last year.

The snow is pouring down like stones. They close their eyes as the wind threatens to take away everything they owned. Bruce and Jack clings to each other. 

Bruce looks over to his side. A small shimmer of hope. The snow angels may be almost completely gone, but he could still make out the part of their hands, joining together, just like the day they met, in a storm just like this.

"Jack....we can make it..." Jack nods, eyes closed as they become more and more desperate in the snow storm.

Bruce looks again. They have disappeared, the snow angels.

---

Weeks later, when the snow has melted off to give way to a slightly less cold version of winter, the people of Gotham marvel and gasp in horror of the headline news. 

“Bruce." His mother looks heartbroken. Bruce Wayne. The recently caught 'Batman.' is now dressed in the orange Arkham regalia. Hair greasy and messy. Dark circles of stress and anger blossomed under his eyes. Bruce glares out at his mother. She was shot when he was eight. This is nothing but a delusion. They were truly deluded.

"You are dead." Martha blinks back her tears, as Thomas Wayne clenched his fists and teeth at his son, the boy whom he raised, becoming an insane vigilante who crashes cars and use illegal weaponry to terrorise Gotham City. "You are all dead, after you have been shot-"

Thomas slams his hands down on the table, seething as Martha, the woman he loved, held back her tears.

"It was a traumatic event, Bruce, but we are alive-" "NO!" Bruce screams- he is THE Batman. How dare these people, mockeries of his parents- DARE to imitate them?!

The guards drags him, kicking and screaming into his cell.

---

The doctor, Harley Quinn-he refuses to call her anything but that, sighs at him. "Bruce- it- the Joker- is not real!" Bruce glares at her, eyes wide.

"The Joker is real." He says, in a slow monotone that indicates a deadly rage. Said rage gives out vital information of the patient's mental state.

"I can feel his bones crumble underneath my fists." Bruce looks up, blue eyes locking with the doctor's. "I hear his laugh, every single day I hear it in my ears, echoing in my skull."

He brushes his hair back with long, bony fingers.

"His blood splatters on my suit-" His eyes are burning, as Bruce starts to wave his arms and hands around for emphasis. "His suit- it must be made out of silk- I feel them slip right through my fingers." Harleen remains silent, taking in all this information. The patient's obsession with the 'Joker' figure is worrying. He threw a fit when they took away his playing cards.

"His hair- he has long hair- is green. But when he washes the paint out- he does that sometimes, just for me-" She can hear the sheer pride from that sentence- "Is blond. Like, golden blond. Beautiful, you know? But not beautiful like a woman, just- beautiful."

"He has these scars around his mouth- they look like a smile, but they are not ugly, no- nonono- everything about him is just- he has this kind of energy-"

"And his eyes! They sparkle. Like diamonds, except green- you can see every little detail- if you just look close enough." Bruce lets out a breath.

"He- he- I want him"

The tone of the patient's voice changes. He leans forwards, eyes even wider almost foaming at the mouth with a mad reverence, slamming his hands on the table- If this Joker is real, Harleen would be feeling quite sorry for him.

"I want to feel him. I want to fuck him." Bruce leans in, and whispers. "I want to eat him." Harleen gulps, hand reaching under the table for the emergency bell, but this has piqued an interest in her. Anyone with the slightest interest in psychology would kill for a session with Bruce Wayne. 

"I want to take him apart. Cut out his scars. Gouge out his eyeballs and keep the gems- 'cause they are gems, in a jar. I will peel off his skin while making love to him and screaming his name- JOKER!" He yells, throwing his hands into the air and grinning as Harleen jumps back slightly.

"I want to bite his lips." He whispers. "Bite them until they bleed, until they come off. I want to tie him up and keep him. Love him and kill him- cause he blew up the hospital and killed Rachel and Harvey-"  Harleen refrained herself from reminding Wayne that he had done those things, committed those crimes.

"I want him inside of me. Every bit of him. I want his bones in my bones, his marrow on my tongue and his eyes in my brain. I want to see things he sees, taste and feel him. Grab him by the throat and squeeze the air out of his throat.  I want every single ounce of his flesh in my stomach- absorbed into my body-"

His eyes are black with lust and want and loathing- "I want his soul like he wants mine."

"I love him."

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Batman, was, in some ways what the good natured old folks of Gotham City would call a demon. He certainly dressed that way, all in black with enormous, devilish bat wings sticking out of his back- made of who knows what material it was-

But those who has seen him swears, up and down and on their lives that they were wings made out of flesh.

He glides, night by night, Gotham's silent guardian. Bruce Wayne is in need of an guardian angel himself, he thinks, when loneliness threatens to overtake.

---

There are times when Bruce thinks he is being watched. He would walk down the street or the hallway of the manor and see a pair of eyes, sometimes green and sometimes blue but always so beautiful- staring at him. Then he turns and they disappear into the shade. 

He would chase after them, breathing hard and thinking that he has, somehow, gone mad. But there is always the everlasting feeling of being watched.

Batman would see feathers on his cape. White feathers, as pure as snow with stains of blood from his battles sticking to them. He would wash them out and put them in a small chest in the cave. 

He took one with him once, to interfere with a large drug deal. Guns, hundreds of them pointing at him, the leading mobster grinning wildly, not able to believe that he has actually caught THE Batman.

Batman sees everything slow down. Their leader gives a cry, a war cry as the bullets fired. 'Is he going to die like this?' Bruce thought, and he find himself not willing, not willing to die at all- not now- he thinks to himself. Not-

There was a flash of white. The wind howls around them as the white light seems to envelope him, and for a minute there Bruce thought he must have looked like some demonic messiah, glowing a bright light while the wings flapped about behind him, the metal bullets clanging to the concrete as the mobsters turn and flee, screaming in horror and confusion.

The light was there, making him unable to move until the last of the outsiders has gone.

---

Batman stood, dumbfounded as the dazing lights fades.

"What? No thank you?" A voice, slightly nasal called out him. He snaps around, to find familiar eyes locking with his.

A man, dressed in what must be called period regalia, grins at him. A pair of snow white wings, truly made out of blood and meat and bones and the purest feathers sticks out of his back.

He smiles, and the scars- oh god the scars on his mouth stretches into the most grotesque and most beautiful smile. Batman feels his mouth run dry and his throat constrict.

"T- thank you." He manages after an eternity. The man sighs, and Batman sees what looks like blood leaking out of the white- skirt?

The man steps forwards, eyes sparkling as he placed a finger on Bruce's lips. "Ssh- no need to say anything." Batman opens his mouth- "I feel for you, you know?" 

He turns and limps away, as Bruce tries to call out, only to find that the man- angel- has placed a Joker card into his hand.

---

Three weeks later, he sees a familiar face on the television news, of a killer with horrible scars and a scathing laugh and those shining, living eyes.

Bruce finds himself smiling.

 worn down and shining, of the city’s dark knight and clown prince, was  everywhere.

“Look, bats. They worship us.” The Joker would whisper and Batman  never  answers, but he knows that it is true, ever since times long gone, too  long ago that it is impossible to remember, back when they has a reason to fight  instead of just fighting for the sake of it.

They see children building small mud monuments out of water and sand,  laughing and playing the games, with little bats and little clowns  everywhere,  hidden in the scent, the walls, the graffiti and the people.

“We should show them just who we really are.” A long, long time ago,  centuries, even a millennium ago, they were younger. Gods, they were. Fueled by war and blood and hate and love and chaos and justice.

They fought like there was no tomorrow. Only the slamming of fists  against  flesh, fists against fists and flesh against flesh. They were born for each other. 

Through the years and years of fighting and storms and terrifying nights,  Gotham grew up. The people learned, and the gods, seeing that  everything is settling into place, begins to fade away. 

Because even gods die. As soon as the number of people that truly  believed  them dwindle, their energy levels drop. They fade away. In a way, they  die.  Their lives starts over again, as humans or animals, or anything else  with a  shred of life in them. You could say that all humans are once gods.

  Batman and the Joker are the last two left in this world, hanging on by  the  shreds of belief held by the public of Gotham. But even now, this mother of crime is being rebuilt- they knocked down the statues, builds new,  modern  buildings over their bases and forbid children to learn about those they used  to fear and revere.

“We should show them, you know.” Joker tells Batman, as they continue  to watch as the large crane lifts rock. The head of the Batman statue  falls to the ground, one of it’s ears finally dropping and rolling off, the weary old statue put to  rest, as the more artistic monuments gets moved to various museums.

“Why? You don’t seem to be one who fears death.” Batman asks. They  rarely fight anymore. There is just no more point in the bloodshed, the  cries and  screams of horror as they tore through the streets. He knows the Joker  misses those days, but everyone- the people- are just better off when  things  are like this.

“I don’t.” Joker replies. “It’s just- I don’t wanna forget you, you know?  When we finally disappear? Get rebirthed, become just another one of-  them.”Batman nods. He would not admit so, just a hundred years ago. “I- I  would  miss you. Too.”

The statue falls to the ground, construction workers picking up pieces.  Of scars, of fear. It was no work of art, but it showed the ugly essence of  them.

Day by day, the days of ‘New Gotham’ blurred together. People forgot  about  them as gods, instead only seeing them as works of art, hushing in  amazement at the great statues erected in the middle of the museums  and plazas.

“I think it’s time now, batsy-” Joker slurs. They exchange a glance.  Poison  green eyes are dull, and the fuzzy blue ones are bloodshot. There is no more say, into whether they are going to survive anymore.

“I think it’s time, too.” Batman leans over. There is one last chance, one  last  farewell between old friends, and old enemies. They lock lips.

    In Gotham Central Hospital, a baby boy is born. Dr Thomas Wayne looks

proudly at the shock of black hair his son sports, as Martha grins down  to her baby boy.

“Let’s name him Bruce.”

  A mother. Young, blond, and tired of life, sobs as she places the child,  her boy, onto the dump.

“Good luck.” She whispers, tucking a handful of playing cards in the worn, ratty blanket. Only the Joker card remains, while the others were blown  into the wind.

  Some day, they will meet again.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

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