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myinternettrash · 3 days

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Cáncun [Chapter 1, Years 1-3]

summary: He was finally going to do it. Avenge his parent’s death. Joe Chill would die just like his parents did, shot and left to bleed out. An eye for an eye seemed almost too fair for Bruce.

Joe Chill should suffer.

An AU in which Bruce Wayne kills Joe Chill and is sent to Arkham Asylum, only to meet the one and only Joker.

an: hey y'all! welcome to cáncun! i wrote this first chapter during this week and last week in my classes when i had free time. it’s basically been a stress reliever during the weeks leading up to my exams! this fic is important to me for so many reasons but my AU is also something i haven't really seen on any batjokes fics. i hope to write more fics like this to fill that void!

i hope you enjoy this fic and the first chapter!

so many thanks to my beta (@kingofspadesdelusion ) for supporting this fic and proofreading!

YEAR ZERO —

Bruce switched the car into sixth gear, the needle on the 72’ El Camino’s speedometer steadily rising. The car’s motor growled as Bruce tore through the streets of Gotham. His revolver lay heavy and cold in the inside pocket of his coat.

He was finally going to do it. Avenge his parent’s death. Joe Chill would die just like his parents did, shot and left to bleed out. An eye for an eye seemed almost too fair for Bruce.

Joe Chill should suffer.

He parked his car haphazardly in front of the steps of the courthouse, Gotham’s large and imposing architecture only heightening Bruce’s emotions.

The courtroom’s atmosphere was thick and cold, the sting of Bruce’s ice-blue eyes never leaving the slumped-over form of his parent’s murderer.

He shifted in his seat, a slight move of his hand into the inside of his coat pocket, and then his hand was on the gun.

Time seemed to slow down as Bruce pulled out the gun, fingers grasping the trigger with fervor. The metal was both freezing and scalding to the touch.

He shot three times, in non-lethal areas, an ambulance would not be able to reach the courtroom in time to save him. Everyone would watch him suffer.

Joe Chill’s blood would stain this courtroom and all of Gotham.

Time sped up as screams rang out, cops rushing out to detain Bruce. He was pushed to the court’s marble floor, left cheek pressed painfully to the stone. A hand held Bruce’s head down, ruffling deep-brown locks. The metal of the handcuffs stung and cut into Bruce’s wrists, the click of the lock mechanism boomed loudly in his ears.

Emotions that had been bottled up for twelve years came out like a flood. It wasn't long before Bruce heard his own guttural screams through the cacophony of panicked and horrified noises.

Jim Gordon’s eyes lanced through Bruce’s foggy mind, cutting their rage into his brain.

“Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s jaw tensed, he shifted his head to look at Gordon more closely.

“I never thought I would see you in the station,” Jim walked towards him, his footsteps pounded loudly in Bruce’s ears, “not like this.”

Bruce bit his tongue as Jim continued, “What would your father think?”

A growl reverberated from his throat quickly, broken and animalistic. The chains on the handcuffs snapping apart as Bruce desperately reached for the officer’s shoulder. His nails tore at Gordon’s uniform, “Don't talk about my fucking father, Gordon.”

His court date came faster than time should allow, other, less serious cases were pushed back to allow the speediest of trials for Bruce. People were still in shock that, Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham could have murdered a man. The news channels and papers covered Bruce’s trial and sentencing closely for weeks, it wasn't every day that a billionaire was tried and convicted of first-degree murder. Mike Engel’s voice kept playing on a loop in his brain.

Bruce was in the same courtroom that Joe Chill was, except sitting shackled on the other side of the stand. Hundreds of eyes looking at Bruce, judging him for what he had done.

They had no room to judge. Their parents weren't mugged and murdered in front of their eyes, just for him to be left there alive and alone. They didn't know the rage that clawed at his organs and musculature. They didn't know the dark beast that told him to let his rage consume him.

The judge’s voice cut through the haze,

“Bruce Wayne, you are hereby sentenced to 20 years in Elizabeth’s Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, the first two years of that sentence being served at Blackgate Penitentiary.”

The gavel hit like a period on a sentence, the decision was final.

YEAR ONE-TWO —

The two years at Blackgate went quickly.

Bruce, unsurprisingly, was targeted by the other prisoners.

To the surprise of the other inmates, Bruce could fight. He was glad now that he had begged Alfred to let him take countless different martial arts classes when he was younger.

Alfred, though angry, still called Bruce whenever he could. He caught him up with the business at Wayne Enterprises and the manor, always mentioning the state of Bruce’s vast car collection. Rachel called once, voice stricken with anger and grief. She had never called again.

He was so thankful for Alfred.

Bruce had just turned 24 when he was due for his transfer to Arkham. The psychs re-evaluated his mental state every quarter and diagnosed him with a violent form of schizophrenia, chronic depression, and a multitude of unnamed emotional and anger disorders.

He honestly wasn't surprised.

YEAR THREE —

His psychologist at Arkham was a man named Jonathan Crane. He was beautiful in every definition of the word. Delicate features, full lips, high cheekbones, sophisticatedly styled black hair, and artic eyes that hid behind nerdy wire-framed glasses.

His eyes were the most interesting part of his facial features, they were so blue they almost looked white. They acted as bright, clean windows into his deep, dark soul.

His mind, however, was what Bruce loved most about him.

Dr. Jonathan Crane was obsessed with fear and how it could control people.

Bruce knew that is why they became fast friends.

“Good morning, Bruce!” The doctor was cheerful this morning, with a smile on his face, and two cups of coffee in his hands.

“You’re happy this morning, Jon.” Bruce looked at the shorter man, his own blue eyes trying to analyze what was causing the other man’s gleeful demeanor.

“I was just thinking about you,” Jonathan set the cups of coffee on his desk before Bruce interrupted him.

“Think about me a lot do you, Jon?” Bruce smiled at the psychologist, he reached for his cup of coffee, Jonathan always seemed to make it just right.

“Only sometimes, Bruce.” Jonathan smiled back, bringing his own cup of coffee to his lips, he liked his with two sugar cubes, no creamer. “I was thinking,” he paused briefly, “that today I will have a breakthrough.”

“Listen, you know that little monster that lives inside your head?” Jon’s blue eyes peered up at Bruce, he smirked before continuing, “I think it’s a bat.”

“Because bats are my greatest fear?” Bruce’s hand shifted to hold his chin, his elbow resting on the deep mahogany of his doctor’s desk.

“No, Bruce, that bat,” Jon’s smile slipped, his face morphing into something more serious and befitting for a psych, “is your greatest weapon.”

Being friends with Jon had immense benefits. The head psychologist could pull a lot of strings, and he often did, just for Bruce.

Even if that was just to get a hot shower or a piece of veggie pizza.

“Wayne, Dr. Crane needs you!” one of the guards on duty shouted to Bruce from across the cafeteria. He looked up, it was Mick DeLange, one of the better (and more malleable) guards. Bruce stood from his seat, grabbing his tray, “Bye, Victor, if I don't see you at dinner tonight I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said smoothly.

He gracefully cleaned off his tray and put it into the return cart, he waved briefly to Mick in thanks and walked toward the swinging double doors of the cafeteria.

“Bruce,” Jonathan spoke tersely. He always did when guards and other patients were around.

“Dr. Crane, you needed me for something?” Bruce spoke like always had, planned, effortlessly smooth, with the holier-than-thou edge of a billionaire playboy.

Jonathan turned on his black oxfords, expecting Bruce to follow after him.

Once they reached his office, Jonathan leaned against his desk and rubbed his hand over his face.

He looked tired today, exhausted really. He had heavy eye bags and circles under his cornflower blue eyes. His glasses were pushed back into his hair, his jet-black strands disheveled and misplaced. His hands trembled every few seconds.

Bruce scrutinized the other man’s behavior, Jonathan never acted like this. He was always confident and sure of himself, if Bruce was a psychologist, he’d question him on his huge ego.

“I’ve been working on something,” Jonathan finally looked into Bruce’s eyes, “I think you'd like to hear about it.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched, he moved from his place by the door to stand in front of his friend.

“Ok.” Bruce nodded slightly, his beast itched at his guts, Jonathan did something insane, he, and the beast, could sense it.

The black-haired man sighed unsteadily, dragging his shaking hand under his right eye to the bottom of his face.

“I’ve been working on my fear toxin.” He licked his full bottom lip, “I used it for the first time last night on some meth junkie, he was going through withdrawal.”

Bruce stared amazed at Jonathan, he nodded again, keeping his movements subtle so he would not startle his friend in this state.

“He was terrified, Bruce, he was so scared.” Jon’s demeanor shifted, a smirk gracing his features.

“I felt so powerful, I had his entire mind under my control!” He reached for Bruce’s broad shoulders, shaking them slightly with excitement.

His smile stretched wider and became genuine happiness, “See! Bruce, fear is what powers everything!” Jon’s hands shifted to hold Bruce’s jaw gently, “I will be unstoppable, and this is just the beginning.”

Bruce couldn't help but smile back.

“What will they call you?”

“The Scarecrow,” he whispered.

Jon’s hands gingerly fell away from Bruce’s face as Bruce thought about Jon’s apparent experiments and plans to control people’s fear.

He was fascinated really, as much as Jonathan picked at his brain, like a crow to seed, Bruce stuck his talons in and split open Jon’s.

His brain should be the one being studied.

The other man’s voice faded back into focus, “Would you like to see my mask?”

He smiled, pearly-white, perfect teeth gleamed under the murky, yellow light of the room. “Of course, Jon.”

Jonathan smiled, he strode behind his desk, slender fingers grasping a patchwork piece of burlap.

He held it up for Bruce to see, “Isn't it amazing?”

“Their fear will consume them, but they will also be consumed by the symbol of my mask,” the shorter man clutched Bruce’s wide palm, brushing it against the material of the mask. “I will be fear.”

“You're incredible, Jon,” Bruce grinned, “but I think I might have to report you to HR…” Jon let go of his hand, chuckling, he put his mask back in his desk drawer.

“Funny. Don't you have art therapy right now? Nurse Ratchet won't be happy you're late.”

Bruce blanched, “…Thanks, Crane.” Bruce turned for the door, the orange Arkham uniform crinkling as he moved. He twitched his fingers at the doctor, his wrist not moving enough for it to be considered a wave.

He left his friend's office quickly, the dim, white lights of the Arkham halls stretching out Bruce’s shadow. Ratchet will be sure force his anti-psychotics down his throat tonight.

None of them should have been surprised. The countdown had been ticking down ever since they first met.

She had pushed too hard, Bruce’s calm and collected facade snapping as soon as she uttered the words,

“You should have been the one that died, you freak.”

Bruce went for her throat first, the blunt edges of his nails clawing at her trachea. “You ugly, fucking bitch!” He let his beast talk for him, his body being possessed by his dark terror. His long, slender fingers wrapped in her short rust-colored hair, tearing strands out at the root.

“Don't fucking talk about them,” his voice dropped an octave, deep, harsh, growling, commanding.

Her screams rang in his ears, the rush was too consuming. His head came down, the CRACK of her nose providing an auditory cue for more adrenaline and rage to pump through his veins.

His arms reached for where her limp hands were resting, the pill bottle that was in her hands had rolled three-feet away when he had first reached for her. He took her fingers into his broad palm and flexed them up, the skin on her knuckles were stark white, if he just pushed a little more.

His monster flew around his body restlessly, “Break them!” It screeched in garbled tongues.

Bruce listened.

The snap of the bones sounded like gunshots in Bruce’s ears, resonating in his mind, the sound was perfect.

Her screams became more blood-curdling, guards rushing through the door.

Bruce’s wrists were clutched behind his back; the cool metal of handcuffs brought him down from his rage-induced high.

The reality of his actions crashed down on him, his own sobs causing his body to tremor and seize.

“Get up, Wayne!” the barrel of a gun resting on his temple, its threatening presence warning Bruce what would happen if he didn't obey.

He got up, legs trembling as he took a look at the nurse’s body, her hair and face was bloody, and her mangled fingers laid limply on the floor.

He shouldn't have felt as good as he did as the guards drug him off to solitary.

“Bruce.”

“Jonathan.”

Bruce stared blankly at his psychologist, he knew that this conversation would eventually come. The week in solitary allowed him to mull over his response. He didn't want to disappoint Jonathan or else some of his privileges would be revoked. He had already said goodbye to his hot showers for at least a week.

“Why did you attack that nurse?” Jonathan was leaning over his desk, his delicate features now hard lines forming a harsh, serious face.

“She told me that I should have died instead of my parents,” he rasped. His eyes stared into Jonathan’s gauging his reaction. Surely, he could sympathize with Bruce. That sentence would have initiated anger in anyone.

“Oh, Bruce…” Jonathan’s face softened, his hand shifted from its place on the desk to the top of Bruce’s hand, it was warm in contrast to the ever-constant AC blast the Arkham staff insisted on having.

“If only I would have known,” his thumb was subconsciously rubbing hearts into Bruce’s skin. “I’m sorry, Bruce, that's horrible, I’ll report her as soon as I can.”

Bruce nodded, “Thanks, Jon, that means so much to me,” he moved his hand on top of Jonathan’s patting it delicately. He smiled softly, “You don't even know how much you mean to me.”

The other man flushed lightly, the faintest blush coating the apples of his cheeks. He cleared his throat before slowly moving his back to its place on the desk, as if hesitant to pull away from Bruce’s touch.

After a minute of silence, the clink of Jonathan’s fountain pen and the rustling of his composition book’s pages rushed through Bruce’s senses. The doctor’s slender fingers were wrapped around the black metal of his pen, the ink forming beautiful, elegant shapes. From his place on the opposite side of the mahogany desk, Bruce could tell that it was a report of some kind, most likely noting the nurse’s threat against Bruce.

“Jon,” the man startled, ink from his pen swiped haphazardly across the page of paper, “thank you for listening to me today, but I promised Waylon I would help him set up group.”

“Y-y-yes, of course,” Jonathan’s stutter poked through his sentence. Bruce suspected it was an old habit from childhood. “I’ll see you later, I have to meet Falcone tonight anyway.”

“Alright,” Bruce steadied the other man’s hand, —ink was dripping off the nib of his fountain pen— he rubbed a half circle on the skin with his thumb before heading for the door. His muted orange Arkham jumpsuit flashed against the neutral tones of the room “Bye, Jon.”

He had already left the room when the other man let out a stuttered gasp, “…fuck.”

A few days later, Carmine Falcone was admitted into Arkham. Jonathan had taken time off, apparently, he had important things to take care of with his class. At least, that’s what Mick told him.

He had caught him in his cell reading Dante’s Inferno, the sound of the guard’s footsteps already letting him know it was Mick. Before the guard was finished shuffling through the cell door, Bruce called out, “Hey, Mick, how’s the wife and daughter?” The officer was surprised but answered that everything was good and his daughter was currently learning how to crawl. Hey moved closer to Bruce, “Hey, Wayne, I just wanted to let you know that Crane’s out for the next two weeks, professing thing, something about his class.” The guard’s black glove moved to a foot infeont of Bruce’s face, a white card held loosely in it.

“He wanted me to give you this, told me it was important for you to read,” Bruce reached out crasp the card between his fingers, the stationary was expensive and familiar, a reminder to call or write to Alfred when he was next able.

“Thanks, Mick,” the guard was turning to leave, “hey, it was nice to see you, tell Izzy I said hi,” Bruce smiled politely, his canines glinting in the light of his cell. Mick smiled back, knocking on the cell door twice before leaving.

Bruce directed his attention to the letter in his hand. He gently placed a bookmark in his book, closing it softly. His name was elegantly drawn on the front of the card, something so chareristacilly Jonathan. Bruce pulled the letter out of the envelope, the same graceful loops and lines covering the page.

Dear Bruce,

As you already know Carmine Falcone was recently admitted into Arkham, of course I’m sure you have already figured out that his insanity is fabricated. My fear toxin is becoming stronger, more impactful. Scarecrow has a lot of work to do on the streets regarding deals and getting things under my control. I’ll be back to see you soon, I promise. I’m getting whole news segments about my alleged plans! Engel and Vale don't know anything though. My plans go far deeper than what they are reporting. They don't know, but you do, Bruce. I know you understand.

Regards,

Jonathan Crane

And that was that.

Bruce’s thoughts flared. Intense thoughts of violence would overtake him doing the most mundane things. Visions so realistic he would have to pinch himself to come back to reality. He wanted to strangle the guard that stood at the end of the lunch line, wanted to see his face turn blue with lack of oxygen, wanted to watch the consciousness slip from his behind his eyes.

His mind reenacted the attack on the nurse when he was feeling especially empty. That, of course, would only lead to him sobbing, rocking himself back and forth on the cot in his cell, Dante’s Inferno forgotten on the floor.

God, he wanted to get the fuck out of here. Out of Bruce Wayne, out of that shell, his beast clawed and tore at his organs more often than not now.

He swore he could feel the bleeding.

Of course, Jonathan came back. Just like he promised. Dr. Crane wouldn't want to disappoint his patients, or Bruce.

He had told him that things were getting serious with Scarecrow, mass production of his fear toxin, creating toxin junkies, and getting involved with gangs. He was shaking when he told Bruce this. Bruce analyzed the other man as he was talking, he was scared, incredibly so. Not of getting caught or the gangs, but of something else.

A few months later the cops caught him. He was admitted to Arkham. A cell placed right next to Bruce’s. None of it surprised him. He knew that his friend would weasel himself back into power at some point.

Bruce thought as he read, that Jonathan most likely got caught on purpose, to protect himself. Bruce grinned, bright white teeth shining under the flickering LED in his cell. He knocked three times on his cell wall.

“Happy New Year, Jon! This year’s gonna be great!”

He heard a woeful sigh beyond his wall, “Bruce, you have no idea.”

END YEAR 3

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