Chapter 8: Sleep Talk (Third Renovation)

In Wayne Manor's master bedroom, the computer control terminal was humming, blue light reflecting off the walls, giving the entire space a futuristic, technological feel.

Bruce sat in a chair, his suit half-undressed and draped over his shoulders.

"Device Sync Successfully!"

a line of text appeared on the screen, accompanied by a faint chime. The wristband's tracking program activated, transmitting heart rate, temperature, sound... all data at a steady rate.

Bruce stared at the pulsating curves.

Quiet, regular.

That was Jack's current state.

He heard the recording from the theater room replay through his headset—his own voice, the clinking of cups, the rustling of fabric... and Jack's chuckled words:

"You really are sleepwalking."

Bruce turned off the audio, figuring he didn't need to revisit it.

He remembered everything tonight clearly.

He then clicked on another panel.

Function calibration was complete, and the system self-test report appeared in sequence:

Sound Collection: On.

Physiological Data Monitoring: On.

Shock Module: Standby.

The bracelet wasn't a gift, and he was sorry he'd lied to Jack.

He wasn't sure he'd press the electric button. But he had to have the right to do it.

He didn't trust Jack, and he didn't trust this—a strange, fabricated past.

The Joker needed to be monitored... In fact, he should have been locked up in Arkham Asylum.

That was undeniable.

A live image appeared on the screen, captured by the camera in Jack's room—Jack lying in bed, breathing evenly in sleep.

Bruce watched quietly.

Suddenly, a familiar voice rang in his ears again.

The Joker's.

Not in reality, but from the recurring vision deep in his mind:

"Batsy~Batsy~"

"Are you going to pick him up first, then shock him and tell him 'You're not Batman'?"

Bruce clenched his knuckles, his throat tightening slightly.

"Shut up," he whispered.

The image was still streaming back.

Jack's sleep wasn't restful. He rolled over, lying on his side, half his face buried in the pillow. The blanket slipped from his shoulders, revealing the side of his neck and collarbone. A faint blush appeared on his pale skin.

And then, Bruce heard a barely perceptible whisper.

"...Bruce..."

The voice was soft, like a breath escaping from a dream.

Startled, Bruce leaned in to observe.

Then, a staccato, breathy call followed:

"...Bat..."

Jack's voice was low and warm, ebbing and flowing. He seemed to be embracing something, or perhaps demanding a response.

...He was calling him in his dream?

The next moment, Jack whispered softly:

"...Keep going...I love you..."

His voice was muffled, his breathing growing heavier.

Bruce couldn't help but chuckle.

...What was this?

He was actually the Joker's dream girl?

It was so absurd, almost unbelievable.

...He immediately remembered the so-called "surprise gift" the Joker prepared every year for their so-called "anniversary."

And those endearments, those love letters, those…

He suddenly realized that his longtime enemy might actually harbor some rosy fantasy about him.

He should have turned it off immediately—

but a strange instinct urged him to continue.

…It's just information monitoring, he reminded himself, just part of the data collection.

Jack in the video turned over, the covers slipped down, his chest looming. His eyes fluttered beneath his lids, his eyelashes trembled slightly, his lips parted, and a gasp escaped his throat, carrying the unmistakable trace of suppressed desire.

"I love you… sweetheart."

This didn't sound good.

The curve of Bruce's mouth flattened, and his finger paused on the button to turn off the monitoring.

He suddenly realized he shouldn't continue—this was intrusion, prying into someone's privacy.

It was a naked, defenseless dream.

He could guess what Jack looked like in his dreams. He could hear the longing "Bruce" and the soft whisper of "Bat"—a

name, but more like an arousal of desire.

"Love it... so hot... sweetheart."

He was almost immediately struck by a sharp sense of shame and indignation.

He had never been one for voyeurism, nor was he the paranoid type to spy on his own image in someone else's dream.

He shouldn't have listened any longer.

But his fingertips remained on the key.

His mind screamed—turn it off, turn it off, stop now!

But his hand remained frozen.

Jack's brow furrowed slightly in the image, unconsciously trying to breathe deeper.

"...Please... Bat..."

Bruce's heartbeat paused.

Jack murmured a few more words, the words garbled, but one string sounded like:

"...Mmm... honey... you're doing so well..."

The words trailed off with a wet, sticky, soft tingle, as if spoken into Bruce's ear.

Jack's fingers scratched at the quilt, as if pleading.

Bruce, pinned to the chair, watched with bated breath.

He hesitated, thinking:

This wasn't suspicious intelligence, nor was there a conspiracy. Perhaps there wasn't anything he needed to "deal with."

He knew what kind of dream it was - he could almost imagine how the two of them hugged each other, kissed, flirted, and... in that dream,

he hated his powerful imagination.

Shame, anger, hesitation... layers of taut steel wires intertwined in his heart.

He wanted to end this "surveillance" immediately.

He could see the rise and fall of Jack's breathing, the trembling lines of his neck, and hear the person who was calling his name defenselessly, waiting for his response.

He closed his eyes, and his Adam's apple rolled with difficulty.

His heart was beating irregularly in his chest, and heat climbed up.

What are you doing, Bruce?

His heart was asking.

Why are you still watching?

Are you trying to catch him in the act, or... are you indulging your own need for control?

"Oh, Bat, why are you still watching?"

the Joker drawled.

Bruce clenched his fists.

He slammed the button to shut it down.

————————————

That night.

Bruce lay in bed, eyes closed.

Darkness crept in, his consciousness fading.

He felt like he was standing on the surface of water, his black cloak spreading out behind him, creating ripples.

A breathy chuckle came from underwater.

"Batsy..."

There was no wind, no light.

His senses were restricted, and he couldn't control his body.

He was falling.

Into some warm water.

The voice appeared again:

"You dreamed of me."

Who was this...?

Bruce didn't open his eyes or speak, but something was pressing against his skin, a sticky touch.

He felt like he was being peeled off.

The armor was intact, the clothes were still there, but certain shackles called self and control were being torn apart, revealing his true self underneath.

Someone was peeling him apart.

Piece by piece, fingers traced across his shoulder blades, gently rubbing each spot he'd rarely touched, bringing a tingling, burning sensation.

He could feel the other's scent, their breaths mingling. He naturally raised his hand, responding to the touch.

"You've always been like this..."

the voice whispered in his ear.

"...You have to accept your own madness."

No... not right.

Something was wrong.

He suddenly opened his eyes.

All around him was pitch black, save for a red light—shining down at him through the theater curtains.

The figure sat on his lap, looking down at him.

His face was indistinct, his features blurred.

But he suddenly remembered who it was.

...Jack.

His throat tightened, and he tried to avoid the figure's touch.

The figure nibbled at his ear, and his body shuddered, electricity running down his spine, numbing his fingertips.

He tried to push away, but his body was frozen in place.

He couldn't resist.

Then, the light went out.

Each touch was a gentle punishment, his will betrayed by his body, drowning in this undeserved embrace.

He began to unravel.

He kissed and bit desperately, wishing he could tear that face to pieces, so much so that he couldn't tell whether he was biting or licking.

"Bat..."

The voice dissolved in the water.

He seemed to have entered a black hole with no exit, or to be falling endlessly. He knew it was wrong, but all this was out of control, unstoppable, and unrejectable.

As they entangled tightly, he saw the other's eyes open -

an evil, deep green.

...The Joker.

Bruce shuddered and shook him off.

Then the dream suddenly collapsed, water poured in from all directions, swallowing their bodies.

The dream was shattered.

He woke up with a start, sweating all over, his cheeks burning.

"Damn it." It was

just dawn.