Blink: Part 2
Apparently this is a serious multi parter. Sorry for today's spamfest, f-list! I hate posting WiPs and won't hit up the comm until I post it all. Probably.
Title: Blink
Author: zombieboyband
Fandom: Batman, Earth 3
Summary: Bruce blurts out an incredulous laugh when he sees Owlman. Owlman really, really doesn't like people laughing at him; nor does he like someone else wearing his face. Owlman draws an owlarang and prepares to slice. "Who's laughing now?"
Pairing: Owlman/Batman. Um. Yes. endcredits made me do it encouraged me and gave me the prompt in the summary.
Rating: Eventual NC-17. Now? Ho hum.
Warnings: Owlman. Violence.
Word count: 1,843
Disclaimer: Batman and Owlman, the goddamn, are not mine.
Even though he's read the blueprints, even though he's gotten the run down from Lucius, even though he's as prepared as someone who isn't the inventor can possibly be, Bruce still isn't sure what the hell happens when he blinks out of one place and into another. Perplexingly, he doesn't appear in a place that's anything like the space he was in--he isn't underground, and he isn't in the outskirts of Gotham, he's in it, as if the geography was somehow shifted, layers overlapping that weren't quite copies. His mask is still off, hanging behind him from when he peeled it off his face in the Batcave. He twitches his hands, puts it back up.
The fact that he's in Crime Alley clicks after maybe thirty seconds, and the dizzying thought that there's possibly an inevitability to the cowl and the cape, some sort of order, isn't fast or strong enough to overwhelm that grief that hits the back of his throat like bile. But he's Batman: much as his body wants to stumble out of the shadows, drunk with despair, he moved into concealment immediately and there he stays, barely breathing, until he can move stealthily. His shadow's slick against the buildings, and he moves away quickly. He climbs as soon as he can, gaining some altitude. Before he glides off into the night he removes a glove and gauntlet, snapping the metal cuff into place on his wrist. He doesn't know how to get home yet, but he doesn't want to risk losing it. He gears up again, and lunges off a roof.
Somewhere he thinks he hears the ghost of a familiar laugh, but he doesn't stop for something that probably isn't there.
He's even more careful than usual to prevent himself from being seen. Is it like time travel? Is he warping reality if he steps on a butterfly? For a second he catches himself concluding that it's for the best that butterflies don't come out at night, and then he realizes that the strain of being in this place is wearing on him. Everything is slightly different, slightly off--no, not everything, he corrects himself, but enough is wrong that the right parts seem all the more out of place because of it. The way the cars in the streets have tiny details wrong in their curves and angles; their logos should be familiar but there's something wrong with the shapes. Buildings he thinks he knows don't have the right number of floors. There are architectural flourishes in places he doesn't remember, and when he swings by the nicer parts of Gotham, he notes that some of the gothic touches aren't there--while others are. He thinks there are less gargoyles than usual, then he swings into another district and he decides there are more. His mouth is a thin and frowning line, but then, it nearly always is, even when he rides the wind back home.
Surprise catches in his throat when he catches sight of another figure gliding in the night--and the angles there are a curious mix of familar and not for other reasons entirely. He changes course, even though the grapple gun has to whizz past to latch onto something so he can turn. Whatever it is follows him, like swift death rippling in the night, but he is faster, or fast enough, or has a head start. When he lands he is nearly silent, and he melts into the shadows once more.
The thing that followed him doesn't blend into the shadows quite like he does. There's a metallic gleam, silver in the moonlight, that has little in common with the matte black on his own body. It's not just the colors, though--there's a certain sense of purpose to all that bulk, an arrogance in the lines of the shoulders just appearing as their owner scoffs and apparently decides he doesn't need the darkness, stepping out from the shadows entirely.
Bruce blurts out an incredulous laugh when he sees Owlman--he can't help it. The weirdness of this place seems perfectly summed up, and he feels like it's all some awful joke on him, some mockery of his lifelong grief, and it's so profoundly ridiculous that the sound breaks free of his throat.
Owlman really, really doesn't like people laughing at him; nor does he like someone else wearing his face: they each may only be displaying their mouths and the lines of their jaw, but that's enough. That's too much. Owlman draws an owlarang and prepares to slice, stepping up, cornering Bruce against the wall. He goes still, and Owlman sneers, fits the blade between his teeth.
It reminds Bruce of someone else.
"Who's laughing now?"
Two wrists beat one, so Bruce forces Owlman's arm back as he ducks and then twists. The judo throw buys him a precious second of time while Owlman hops back on his feet.
"Who are you?" Batman asks.
"Who am I?" Owlman snarls, "Who are you, freak? I'm the goddamn Owlman. Don't pretend you don't know."
Batman ducks a vicious sweep of the Owlrang.
"Owl," Batman says, voice hollow.
"Are you some kind of fucking joke? Did the clown send you?"
Bruce ignores the mention of a clown. It can't mean what he almost thinks. That there's something about the multiuniverse that drives him to a costume is more than he can accept; that there might always be a clown is far too much for him to consider right now.
"Listen," he tries, as he catches the blade on his gauntlet when his raises his arm to block the blow, "I think there's--" He has to use the other arm for another swipe. And again-- "--some misunderstanding, here--"
Owlman grits his teeth, and shows Bruce that he's not the only one that knows fancy ways to trip a man. Bruce's back hits the ground, hard.
"If we could just--" Bruce grunts, kicks up at Owlman with both legs before kipping up, "Talk for a second--"
"NO!" Owlman roars, rushing into Bruce, who barely manages to knock the blade away and out of the fingers it's in, "Why are you stealing my face?"
They both tip over, falling onto the ground, wrestling with each other for control.
"I didn't," Bruce grits out, and he keeps on trying to explain, he keeps hoping. If this place is a mirror and this man is him (why owls? he wonders), surely he will respond to reason. They even have similar gear. True, the Owl's style seems different than his, Bruce knows it--but he can't quite bring himself to the conclusion that Owlman fights to kill. Maybe to maim, he figures, though that's not much better. Maybe the criminals are harder here. Maybe everyone is on the Joker's level and the Owl is burning from both ends, a desperate one man crusade, and the strain--the strain--
A strangled sound escapes him as a blade digs between his plates and finds his flesh. Only the way he twists out from beneath the other man saves him from having metal shoved through his internal organs.
He's up again and he slams Owlman against a brick wall, hard enough to knock the wind out of a less (or perhaps unarmored) man, and takes the second blade away. With the right twist of his hips he throws a power punch that he knows will get through armor, then he loads up for another. He gets Owlman in the face the second time, not the body, and he might have missed first blood but now he has second.
"You fight pretty good, for someone who's not gonna be able to finish," Owlman says suddenly, because Bruce isn't the only observant one, and there's yet another blade in his hand, curved and wicked. Just the sight of it brings a bitter taste to Bruce's mouth. Again, he's reminded of someone else, someone who doesn't have the bulk of that body on his side.
"Finish?" Batman throws himself back to avoid more blade to the stomach.
"Kill," Owlman says, and the lunge he makes for Bruce makes it either a clarification or a promise. "I know your type--you won't, you can't."
"You don't have to kill me. I'm you!" Bruce deflects another blow, but he's too bewildered to be on the offensive, and he has to keep up and do block after block after block. He checks another blow, then kicks at Owlman's legs. Eventually that will cripple a man, he knows, and make the stabbings have much less power, but he doesn't know if he has that long.
"No," Owlman says shortly, "You're not. I know you're not." He makes a grab for Bruce's arm, misses, snatches the other one quickly, and twists it until he hears something pop out of place, smiles grimly at the sweet, musical sound. "I know you're not, because I'm not such a pussy."
He reaches up then, and his fingers find just the latch he's anticipating, the one that disables the trap, and then he rips Batman's mask off. The movement costs him, and Bruce twists about of his grip, pins his arms, and slams him against the wall with all his strength. Owlman sucks in a breath, struggles, but Bruce's equally broad chest is pressed against his, their lips pulled back in near identical snarls. At nearly the same moment they look into each other's faces, and they both blink.
They each knew, of course, even with the masks, but to see the exact same shade of blue staring at them is a different thing entirely. Bile rises up in Bruce, but it works like it should, it gives him strength, and the next thing he knows, he's finding the latch on the mask and then ripping it off before driving the blade of his arm against Owlman's neck.
Owlman and Batman, both unmasked, locked together in an alley, are panting. Their muscles ache and their heads spin.
The moment stretches out, long and hot, like the sort of dog day summer that makes tempers quick and maddens dogs and people alike, spurring on murders and ice cream sales. They are both cataloging the differences in their faces rapidly.
Batman thinks Owlman's is slightly more lined that his, aside from the harder expression around the mouth. His skin is flecked with the occasional pockmark. Owlman thinks Batman's skin looks too soft, too pampered. They have the same thin lips. They both have good teeth, but Batman's are even better. His eyebrows, too, are meticulously (but not at all effeminately) groomed, because Bruce Wayne, prince of the socialites, has to attend to certain things before a photo shoot. Owlman's hair is a touch longer, and he has the rugged good looks of an action star, even on the bones of Bruce's face, which would look delicate if not for his own size. They both have black painted around their eyes.
"Who the fuck are you," he whispers, eyes locked on Bruce's.
Title: Blink
Author: zombieboyband
Fandom: Batman, Earth 3
Summary: Bruce blurts out an incredulous laugh when he sees Owlman. Owlman really, really doesn't like people laughing at him; nor does he like someone else wearing his face. Owlman draws an owlarang and prepares to slice. "Who's laughing now?"
Pairing: Owlman/Batman. Um. Yes. endcredits made me do it encouraged me and gave me the prompt in the summary.
Rating: Eventual NC-17. Now? Ho hum.
Warnings: Owlman. Violence.
Word count: 1,843
Disclaimer: Batman and Owlman, the goddamn, are not mine.
Even though he's read the blueprints, even though he's gotten the run down from Lucius, even though he's as prepared as someone who isn't the inventor can possibly be, Bruce still isn't sure what the hell happens when he blinks out of one place and into another. Perplexingly, he doesn't appear in a place that's anything like the space he was in--he isn't underground, and he isn't in the outskirts of Gotham, he's in it, as if the geography was somehow shifted, layers overlapping that weren't quite copies. His mask is still off, hanging behind him from when he peeled it off his face in the Batcave. He twitches his hands, puts it back up.
The fact that he's in Crime Alley clicks after maybe thirty seconds, and the dizzying thought that there's possibly an inevitability to the cowl and the cape, some sort of order, isn't fast or strong enough to overwhelm that grief that hits the back of his throat like bile. But he's Batman: much as his body wants to stumble out of the shadows, drunk with despair, he moved into concealment immediately and there he stays, barely breathing, until he can move stealthily. His shadow's slick against the buildings, and he moves away quickly. He climbs as soon as he can, gaining some altitude. Before he glides off into the night he removes a glove and gauntlet, snapping the metal cuff into place on his wrist. He doesn't know how to get home yet, but he doesn't want to risk losing it. He gears up again, and lunges off a roof.
Somewhere he thinks he hears the ghost of a familiar laugh, but he doesn't stop for something that probably isn't there.
He's even more careful than usual to prevent himself from being seen. Is it like time travel? Is he warping reality if he steps on a butterfly? For a second he catches himself concluding that it's for the best that butterflies don't come out at night, and then he realizes that the strain of being in this place is wearing on him. Everything is slightly different, slightly off--no, not everything, he corrects himself, but enough is wrong that the right parts seem all the more out of place because of it. The way the cars in the streets have tiny details wrong in their curves and angles; their logos should be familiar but there's something wrong with the shapes. Buildings he thinks he knows don't have the right number of floors. There are architectural flourishes in places he doesn't remember, and when he swings by the nicer parts of Gotham, he notes that some of the gothic touches aren't there--while others are. He thinks there are less gargoyles than usual, then he swings into another district and he decides there are more. His mouth is a thin and frowning line, but then, it nearly always is, even when he rides the wind back home.
Surprise catches in his throat when he catches sight of another figure gliding in the night--and the angles there are a curious mix of familar and not for other reasons entirely. He changes course, even though the grapple gun has to whizz past to latch onto something so he can turn. Whatever it is follows him, like swift death rippling in the night, but he is faster, or fast enough, or has a head start. When he lands he is nearly silent, and he melts into the shadows once more.
The thing that followed him doesn't blend into the shadows quite like he does. There's a metallic gleam, silver in the moonlight, that has little in common with the matte black on his own body. It's not just the colors, though--there's a certain sense of purpose to all that bulk, an arrogance in the lines of the shoulders just appearing as their owner scoffs and apparently decides he doesn't need the darkness, stepping out from the shadows entirely.
Bruce blurts out an incredulous laugh when he sees Owlman--he can't help it. The weirdness of this place seems perfectly summed up, and he feels like it's all some awful joke on him, some mockery of his lifelong grief, and it's so profoundly ridiculous that the sound breaks free of his throat.
Owlman really, really doesn't like people laughing at him; nor does he like someone else wearing his face: they each may only be displaying their mouths and the lines of their jaw, but that's enough. That's too much. Owlman draws an owlarang and prepares to slice, stepping up, cornering Bruce against the wall. He goes still, and Owlman sneers, fits the blade between his teeth.
It reminds Bruce of someone else.
"Who's laughing now?"
Two wrists beat one, so Bruce forces Owlman's arm back as he ducks and then twists. The judo throw buys him a precious second of time while Owlman hops back on his feet.
"Who are you?" Batman asks.
"Who am I?" Owlman snarls, "Who are you, freak? I'm the goddamn Owlman. Don't pretend you don't know."
Batman ducks a vicious sweep of the Owlrang.
"Owl," Batman says, voice hollow.
"Are you some kind of fucking joke? Did the clown send you?"
Bruce ignores the mention of a clown. It can't mean what he almost thinks. That there's something about the multiuniverse that drives him to a costume is more than he can accept; that there might always be a clown is far too much for him to consider right now.
"Listen," he tries, as he catches the blade on his gauntlet when his raises his arm to block the blow, "I think there's--" He has to use the other arm for another swipe. And again-- "--some misunderstanding, here--"
Owlman grits his teeth, and shows Bruce that he's not the only one that knows fancy ways to trip a man. Bruce's back hits the ground, hard.
"If we could just--" Bruce grunts, kicks up at Owlman with both legs before kipping up, "Talk for a second--"
"NO!" Owlman roars, rushing into Bruce, who barely manages to knock the blade away and out of the fingers it's in, "Why are you stealing my face?"
They both tip over, falling onto the ground, wrestling with each other for control.
"I didn't," Bruce grits out, and he keeps on trying to explain, he keeps hoping. If this place is a mirror and this man is him (why owls? he wonders), surely he will respond to reason. They even have similar gear. True, the Owl's style seems different than his, Bruce knows it--but he can't quite bring himself to the conclusion that Owlman fights to kill. Maybe to maim, he figures, though that's not much better. Maybe the criminals are harder here. Maybe everyone is on the Joker's level and the Owl is burning from both ends, a desperate one man crusade, and the strain--the strain--
A strangled sound escapes him as a blade digs between his plates and finds his flesh. Only the way he twists out from beneath the other man saves him from having metal shoved through his internal organs.
He's up again and he slams Owlman against a brick wall, hard enough to knock the wind out of a less (or perhaps unarmored) man, and takes the second blade away. With the right twist of his hips he throws a power punch that he knows will get through armor, then he loads up for another. He gets Owlman in the face the second time, not the body, and he might have missed first blood but now he has second.
"You fight pretty good, for someone who's not gonna be able to finish," Owlman says suddenly, because Bruce isn't the only observant one, and there's yet another blade in his hand, curved and wicked. Just the sight of it brings a bitter taste to Bruce's mouth. Again, he's reminded of someone else, someone who doesn't have the bulk of that body on his side.
"Finish?" Batman throws himself back to avoid more blade to the stomach.
"Kill," Owlman says, and the lunge he makes for Bruce makes it either a clarification or a promise. "I know your type--you won't, you can't."
"You don't have to kill me. I'm you!" Bruce deflects another blow, but he's too bewildered to be on the offensive, and he has to keep up and do block after block after block. He checks another blow, then kicks at Owlman's legs. Eventually that will cripple a man, he knows, and make the stabbings have much less power, but he doesn't know if he has that long.
"No," Owlman says shortly, "You're not. I know you're not." He makes a grab for Bruce's arm, misses, snatches the other one quickly, and twists it until he hears something pop out of place, smiles grimly at the sweet, musical sound. "I know you're not, because I'm not such a pussy."
He reaches up then, and his fingers find just the latch he's anticipating, the one that disables the trap, and then he rips Batman's mask off. The movement costs him, and Bruce twists about of his grip, pins his arms, and slams him against the wall with all his strength. Owlman sucks in a breath, struggles, but Bruce's equally broad chest is pressed against his, their lips pulled back in near identical snarls. At nearly the same moment they look into each other's faces, and they both blink.
They each knew, of course, even with the masks, but to see the exact same shade of blue staring at them is a different thing entirely. Bile rises up in Bruce, but it works like it should, it gives him strength, and the next thing he knows, he's finding the latch on the mask and then ripping it off before driving the blade of his arm against Owlman's neck.
Owlman and Batman, both unmasked, locked together in an alley, are panting. Their muscles ache and their heads spin.
The moment stretches out, long and hot, like the sort of dog day summer that makes tempers quick and maddens dogs and people alike, spurring on murders and ice cream sales. They are both cataloging the differences in their faces rapidly.
Batman thinks Owlman's is slightly more lined that his, aside from the harder expression around the mouth. His skin is flecked with the occasional pockmark. Owlman thinks Batman's skin looks too soft, too pampered. They have the same thin lips. They both have good teeth, but Batman's are even better. His eyebrows, too, are meticulously (but not at all effeminately) groomed, because Bruce Wayne, prince of the socialites, has to attend to certain things before a photo shoot. Owlman's hair is a touch longer, and he has the rugged good looks of an action star, even on the bones of Bruce's face, which would look delicate if not for his own size. They both have black painted around their eyes.
"Who the fuck are you," he whispers, eyes locked on Bruce's.