Work Text:
A girl bats her eyes at him in the hallway. The attention feels… strange; undeserved. He has to wash it off.
Bruce has never felt or understood vanity. Staring into the mirror has always been akin to holding his breath too long— burning the inside of the lungs.
A foul, thick odor permeates the air; acidic and sour. He locks the door behind him and turns towards the sinks. The bathroom mirror is dirty with fingerprints and various stains.
His reflection greets him with a strange distortion, present since he was adopted. It isn’t visual or auditory. It’s his perception of himself (and his subsequent, reflexive aversion).
Bruce looks the same as he always does, yet… there’s an itch under his skin. Slowly but surely, all the hairs rise on his body. Sweaty palms, tremors in every muscle, and chills running up his spine. He reaches out, fingers grasping the sink handle, and pulls.
Distortions are just creative lies. Their presence has far more implications.
The man staring back at him isn’t quite right.
It’s a carbon copy. But... it isn’t his flesh and blood staring back. It’s glass. An alien, wearing his skin and bones. It’s tension, embedded in his pores. It’s darkness in his eyes; a steel trap prime to be sprung.
Only Bruce sees— not his friends, not his teachers, not his mother; they can’t see it as he can, but... it is there. He can’t explain it to them, because he can’t really even explain it to himself. The closest he can come to describing it is... intuition. Lurking behind the mirror and staring back at him; breathing heavy and low; emerged in shadow.
It’s as if his reflection is waiting.
And, of course, there's a knock.
Bruce splashes his face with water. Then, he unlocks the door.