Chapter Text
Glassy eyes drift unconsciously to the dim hallway, landing on the darkened outline of Bruce Wayne, immaculately dressed, soft hair neatly combed. Through the glass, Joker’s printed caricature stares back at him, grinning and unrestrained. A funhouse mirror reflection.
“I found this. I think it belongs to you.”
Joker’s eyes flick to the card, then to the determined eyes and set jaw of the man holding it. Slowly, he turns back to face the wall.
Unwanted knowledge presses in on Joker, connection after connection clicking together, mysteries dissolving. He feels the figure linger for a moment longer before it disappears down the hallway.
He had always expected this moment to feel like loss. Disappointment creeping into the corners of his gut, something intimate and precious slipping through his fingers.
Instead, he feels something deep in his chest flare up, fragile and tender.
It feels like hope.
***
“Hello, darling.”
It always starts the same way.
“Joker,” Bruce growls into the receiver.
Joker’s voice is tinny, distorted by the phone’s speaker. “You know the drill, sweetheart. Come alone or my new friend here won’t make it through the night.” Bruce hears a muffled whimper in the background.
The sound diminishes, and he hears a faint, “Shh, shh, don’t worry hun, he’ll come. He always comes.” Then louder, “Call Gordon, same deal. We’re at the old Ellis Factory in Tricorner. Can’t wait to see you, pumpkin!”
***
At the end of August, in the final gasps of summer, Gotham is sweltering. The heat from a full day of sun settles into the concrete and steel of the city and, come nightfall, dribbles into the warm, humid air, like steam from a kettle.
Outside the abandoned factory, Batman perches on the rooftop across the street. The entire block is deserted, no civilians nor hired muscle in sight.
His cape flutters behind him as he lands soundlessly on the cement of an adjoining alley as grimy as the dilapidated building beside it. It takes him less than a moment to identify a shattered window as his best point of entry. He scales a dumpster to reach it, maneuvering to slip through the opening without dislodging any additional glass, and lands on the floor with a dull crunch. The room is almost the size of an airplane hangar. Broken lights and metal fixtures hang down from an arched ceiling, still and rusted. Wide shafts of moonlight pierce the dark room in sharp diagonal stripes perpendicular to the tall, dust-speckled windows.
Batman hears the woman before he sees her.
He heads towards the muffled cries coming from the center of the room and, peering into the darkness, sees the woman struggling against ropes that bind her to a chair.
Her eyes grow wide as she sees Batman lunge forward from the shadows, deftly slicing open the restraints binding her wrists with a batarang and undoing the gag around her jaw. Bruce knows what’s going to happen before she even parts her lips to speak.
She gasps, “Look out, he–“
Joker is on him in seconds.
“Run!” he roars at the woman, who is already stumbling away from the fight, her eyes glued on the blur of purple that has attached itself to Batman’s back. She hesitates for only a single second, terror and confusion on her face, before spinning around and fleeing the building.
Batman focuses all of his attention on Joker. He throws him from his back, and it’s only when he hears the heavy thud as he hits the cement that, for the first time tonight, he feels life surge into his muscles. He pounces after Joker, crashing into him and landing a punch on his jaw, snapping his neck back.
Joker lets out a gleeful laugh before spitting blood out of his mouth and grinning savagely at Batman.
Bruce kicks at Joker’s ribs, his heavy steel-toed boot causing the clown’s body to curl in with the impact, his whole frame shuddering with giggles. Batman begins to extricate himself from the mess of brightly colored limbs, the heat and utter aliveness of the man beneath him. He pries them apart and pulls himself towards the exit.
"Leaving already, Batsy?" Bruce hears Joker gasp between breaths.
Batman keeps walking. He has come to realize, perhaps more slowly than is justifiable, that these fights are Joker’s incentive to take hostages. Remove that incentive and maybe less people will get caught in their crossfire.
"Aww, you’re no fun," whines Joker. Bruce hears the shuffling of him sitting up. "And I kidnapped that one all the way from the Upper East Side, right while she was playin’ with her tots in the park. I bet they cried and cried when Mommy left them there all alone.”
Heat rushes to the base of Bruce’s skull. He comes to an abrupt halt, boots scuffing against the worn floor, kicking up dust.
"And you can't even be bothered to get me back to my cozy little spot in Arkham before you go hang upside down in your roost.”
Joker is barely trying, the words rolling effortlessly off his tongue, because he knows he doesn’t have to. He only needs to give Batman a tiny sliver, a semblance of a reason to stay, enough bait to fight off the parts of his mind that scream, stop this while you still can.
"I'll just go find some other pretty taxpayer as a replacement toy if you leave me with such a spring in my step." Bruce feels Joker's sly gaze on his back. "And maybe next time I won't bother to call before I have my fun, if you're not in the mood to play...."
Batman turns around to glare at Joker and he aims a pout at him from the floor. Bruce puts as much virulent hatred into the gaze as he can muster, as if forcing the expression across his face would stamp out the bubbling sensation vaguely akin to glee that is currently dancing through his insides.
He has to stay.
He stalks back towards Joker with precise steps, his muscles tensing. Joker’s grin becomes a blaze as he begins to circle Batman, his shoulders ducked in their characteristic hunch.
“That’s it, Batsy, I knew you couldn’t resist me.” Joker reaches up to mockingly preen, curling a strand of green hair around one long finger.
Batman lunges low, shouldering under Joker’s raised arm. Joker stumbles, but doesn’t lose his balance. His other arm is already coming out of his coat pocket, a purple blur and a metal gleam that Batman has mere moments to jump back from. Joker pounces forward, thrusting the knife toward his shoulder, but Bruce grabs his arm just in time, blocking the imminent blow.
He tries to twist Joker’s arm back but the smaller man clicks his feet together and as he hears the small blades spring out from his wingtips, Bruce dodges the hard kick aimed at his shins with only seconds to spare. He catches Joker’s raised foot and manages to punch Joker square in the face, the blow landing with a thwap. This time, Joker stumbles back and hits the ground, coughing up wet laughter as he wipes at the blood streaming down his face.
“Is that all you got? Come on, baby,” Joker rises to his feet, his eyes bright, his smile wide enough to tear into his cheeks.
Bruce steps forward, feeling completely and utterly alive, every vein in his body a rushing crescendo, his pulse hammering.
Both men are breathing faster now, short intakes that tighten and coil in Bruce’s chest. As Batman dives at Joker again he can tell the smaller man has no intention of avoiding him. They land on the ground, hard.
Bruce lifts himself up, body hovering over Joker. He pulls his fist back again and looks down at the clown.
Joker is completely still, a strange expression on his face. With Batman’s fist still in the air, Joker reaches a hand up and gloved fingers flutter against his jaw. Bruce freezes, his skin blazing frost where he touches him, ever so cautiously.
There is something in Joker's eyes that doesn't belong there, usually so sharp and excited, and it makes something sink, heavy, in Bruce's chest.
He only hesitates for a split second, but Joker uses it to his advantage, slamming his raised hand into Bruce’s shoulder and flipping them over until he lands on top of Bruce. Joker pins one arm to the ground with a knee while his hands force Bruce’s other wrist down. Bruce struggles to wrest his arm free but Joker presses his full weight onto his knee, the gauntlet underneath creaking. With his left hand Joker intertwines their fingers, pressing Bruce’s hand into the ground while Joker’s right hand disappears into his jacket.
Joker leans close to Bruce’s face, their chests near enough that Bruce can feel the other man’s heart beating alongside his own. Joker’s lips are inches from his own, his eyes dilated. Blood drips slowly over his lips, almost black in the moonlight, and a pink tongue swipes it away mechanically. Bruce stops breathing, something in his chest stretched taut like a violin string.
He gives his arm a powerful wrench, trying to pull away, and then feels cold metal against the soft underside of his chin.
“Ah, ah, ah Batsy.”
Bruce hears the click of a safety lock and feels the barrel of a gun digging into his exposed skin. Joker lets Bruce’s other hand go, his smile widening as the larger man stills underneath him.
He traces a gloved finger over the sides of the cowl. Where Bruce expects triumph, he sees only a soft melancholy in Joker’s eyes. In striking opposition with the vicious mirth of just a moment ago, the pale face seems pensive as Joker takes in the square jaw and blue eyes beneath him.
He pulls the trigger.
Liquid drips down Bruce's lips and onto his chin, so hot it feels icy, sliding down his neck– no, that’s not right. Bruce wipes it away, glancing at his hand.
Water. A water gun.
Bruce growls as Joker holds a hand up, hunched over with laughter and gasping for breath. Bruce dives forward and yanks the raised hand over his back, hearing a satisfying crack as he dislocates Joker’s shoulder.
The laughter becomes frenzied. Bruce tries to wrangle the man’s other arm but Joker swings his elbow directly into Bruce’s throat and he stumbles back, coughing. By the time he can blink away the tears, Joker is a purple blur turning the corner of the large eroded metal doors. He halfheartedly jogs after him but, when he reaches the doors, there’s no sign of the clown.
***
Alfred is waiting for him when he returns to the Batcave. Bruce pulls himself out of the Batmobile, his armor heavy and tight against his skin.
“You’re home exceptionally late. Or should I say early?”
“The factory was all the way down in the Tricorner Yards.”
“And the Joker?”
“He got away.” Bruce doesn’t look at Alfred. “I was searching the area until dawn.”
Alfred doesn’t need to know that he spent the last three hours swinging from rooftop to rooftop until he was too exhausted to think, too exhausted to remember the feeling of gloved fingers flitting over his skin, the searing stare.
“There’s breakfast waiting for you in the master bedroom. Remember the fundraiser this evening starts at eight, you’ll need to be up before two to oversee the final arrangements.” Bruce tries not to let out an audible groan and fails.
Alfred smiles sympathetically. “I’ll get the suit cleaned up while you wash, sir.”
As Bruce begins peeling off the layers, he realizes he can smell Joker all over the suit, a smell almost as familiar as the kevlar itself, and he hopes Alfred isn't able to recognize the scent.
“Thank you, Alfred.” Handing over the heavy black gear Bruce walks away toward the showers.
The cold water rinses away his sweat but he increases the water pressure anyway, wishing the icy jets could wash away the tension of the fight, the static electricity, buzzing bright and unbridled, that lingers under his skin. The flashing memories of the warm heat of Joker on top of him are a ragged tear in his mind, the edges fluttering about like a torn mast in a storm.
Wrapping himself in the too-soft white towel, Bruce breathes deeply.
He can still smell the lingering plastic scent of makeup, the leather of purple gloves. He rubs his jaw hard, as if he could wipe away what the shower failed to remove.
***
He’s on fire.
The flames keep licking at his throat even as he lifts his chin, trying desperately to escape from the searing heat. It climbs higher and higher still, relentless and all-consuming, until the inferno swallows him whole.
When he wakes up, he’s soaked in sweat.
***
Bruce pads into the kitchen where Alfred has already set out breakfast along the counter. He slides onto a barstool and flicks on the TV as he takes his first bite.
A reporter is interviewing first responders, smoke filling the background of the shot.
“We tried to contain the fire, but by the time we got here, it had already spread two floors up. We had to evacuate all our men before the support beams collapsed.” The firefighter is still out of breath, covered in soot.
They cut back to the news hosts, seated at their desk. “As of now, this is thought to be the work of the Joker, thanks to preliminary eyewitness reports taken by officers at the scene, but we won’t know for sure until the building is deemed safe to enter by firefighters and police can begin collecting evidence.”
Alfred comes into the kitchen.
“How’s your breakfast, sir?”
Bruce puts his fork down and jerks his chin at the television, his eyes still glued to the screen. Alfred follows his gaze.
“The Joker again?”
“That’s what they’re saying.” The back of Bruce’s throat feels hot and uncomfortable.
Alfred glances at Bruce as he rinses the dishes in the sink.
“Please endeavor to remember that even the Caped Crusader cannot be omnipresent. You couldn’t have predicted the madman’s behavior.”
But I could have prevented him from doing anything last night. If Bruce had done his job and had taken Joker back to Arkham, there would be no fire on the news. If Bruce hadn’t gotten caught up in their fight, he probably could have taken him down that night. Bruce played right into Joker’s hands and was left carrying the guilt that came uselessly late.
And that, Bruce thinks, is probably exactly what he wanted.