Work Text:
It’s the sting of metal still buried in his thigh that tells him he exists. There’s sweat dripping down his face behind his mask. Slipping down his spine. Beading across his upper lip. Bruce is always fighting, but it is on autopilot so often nowadays that it feels like he’s watching a character on a screen. He goes through the motions. Takes down the bad guys.
It doesn’t make a difference. There is something wrong with Gotham, or there is something wrong with Bruce. Both, maybe.
It’s the sound of laughter that has his heart racing. The way he always gets in close to whisper in Bruce’s ear.
“Oh, Batsy,” Joker says, grinning down at Bruce from where he’s towering over him. “Where’s all your fighting spirit? Why the long face, darling?”
He’s got an old straight-razor in his hand, and he leans over to drag it down Bruce’s cheek. The tip cuts a white-hot streak, blood pouring warm down his neck, but Bruce is overheated already and it feels like nothing at all.
Except in his chest, and his guts, and everywhere he is bound together with himself, twisted and expectant and waiting.
“Want me to shorten it for you? I don’t have the steadiest of hands any more but I’d do anything for you, Bruce.”
For the first time in a long time, Bruce feels alive.
When he reaches back for the memory, when he thinks through the pain, it comes to him. Clicks in place like a piece of his fine-tuned machinery. Joker was with him then, and Joker is with him now, and when he closes his eyes and sifts through their history in his mind it comes again, and again. Bruce is only a real person when he is in a fight.
Nobody feels like a fight any more except Joker.
When Dick shows up to help, Bruce feels his stomach drop, his chest ache. He wasn’t supposed to be here, and now things will be easy. He shouldn’t be disappointed, yet there are the unmistakable beginnings of anger simmering under the surface.
There’s no one to be angry with but himself. Bruce shouldn’t be angry at all, but that fluttering anticipation is gone and now Joker is knocked out cold, cuffed and waiting for GPD to pick up and process. Bruce has always hated it when he finally goes quiet, whether it’s from his own fist or Arkham’s sedatives.
It’s raining, but not enough to cool Bruce off, or cut through the heat. Dick is saying something, but Bruce isn’t paying attention. It’s a good thing that Joker is in custody, being shuffled back to Arkham where he can only do minimal damage until he decides to escape again. Gotham is safer.
Bruce’s family is safer.
That is what he holds onto, but it feels smaller and smaller against the rest. All his life he’s worked so they could keep themselves safe, and now they have gotten too good at it, and have started keeping him safe, too. It isn’t their fault that Bruce has never wanted safety.
Bruce just wants to be good for something. Good for someone.
Bruce just wants to be worth anything at all.
-
The feeling in his stomach is worse than before; when Joker is out in the world, even if Bruce isn’t doesn’t know where exactly, there is always a sense of excitement. He doesn’t understand how to do things half-way, and so Joker doesn’t come around often; schemes take time. Planning, and execution, and more often than not Bruce doesn’t have any idea what Joker is doing.
He doesn’t come around often but he always comes around, unless he’s locked away in Arkham like he is right now. Bruce is far gone enough this time to admit he hates it.
Bruce is far gone enough that it feels like he’s waiting, an itch under his skin like he’s been bitten by something. Stung and seething, eaten alive.
It takes time, and Bruce has never been patient, but it’s an inevitability. Arkham can only hold Joker for so long. Bruce wonders if there is anywhere on earth that could keep him locked up forever.
When the call comes in about an incident at Arkham, it feels like a weatherman announcing a storm that Bruce can already see outside. There is no misting rain this time— it is pouring. Joker is long gone, with less fanfare than usual. Bruce wonders where he’ll find him, but he’s already racing downstairs.
There’s that feeling again, trembling like a fist is closed around his heart. Bruce is only alive when he might be dying.
It is almost like being in love.
-
Out on the streets of Gotham Bruce is chasing ghosts. Every trail is cold, like embers of a fire flickering to black. He is too far behind, and he doesn’t know what Joker is playing at this time. There has been no mayhem, none of his signature finesse. Everything about it feels wrong. There are no messages left in his wake. Joker isn’t painting Bruce a picture.
They are always dancing, but the steps Bruce is tracking don’t feel frantic.
They just feel tired. Maybe he is just tired. Bruce thinks he’s been tired his whole goddamned life. He never knows if he’s projecting when it comes to Joker, though, so he leaves all the messier questions unasked.
When dawn is looming there is an undeniable sense of disappointment, but it isn’t hopeless. Bruce hasn’t found him yet, but he will find him sooner or later, even if he’s never been less sure about what he is going to do with Joker once that happens.
Bruce is wrong again; it isn’t sooner, or later.
Joker is in the computer chair in the cave with his back to all the monitors, melted into the seat like he’s been poured there, still dressed in orange scrubs courtesy of Arkham Medical. They’re covered in bloodstains, mud, and what might be ashes. The black number on the right side of his chest has been scribbled over in marker and now reads ‘Patient Joker’, the letter o oversized and stylized like a smiling face.
He’s turned sideways, legs thrown over one arm and head lolling backwards off another, scratching through his hair with the barrel of a .45.
“Nose to the ground till sunrise like a good little boy scout,” Joker slurs, shifting in place like it’s somehow possible to get comfortable with his spine bent in half like that. “Did you find what you were out hunting, darling?”
He isn’t wearing any shoes, or socks. His feet are bleeding and filthy. In all the months Joker has been locked away Bruce has been falling, falling, falling. All Joker has ever wanted is his attention.
Bruce did this to him, as much as anyone. As much as Joker himself.
There are pills spilled all over the computer desk, scattered on the keyboard, falling onto the floor. Several bottles, empty now, translucent orange with gory fingerprints on the labels. Joker reaches over, picks up a few, and shoves them into his mouth, lifting his other hand to drink from the bottle of liquor he’s barely holding onto; it’s clear, and strong. Bruce doesn’t let himself get lost in the specifics, the way his mind wants. If it is gin, or vodka, or everclear. Where he got it. If he stole it.
Bruce has all the best liquor. He finds himself thinking about it.
About just how good Bruce could take care of him.
Would you like some better booze to wash down that overdose?
Bruce wants to close his eyes but he can't look away.
“Guess that’s a no. Don’t worry baby, it happens to everyone, right?” Joker laughs, loud enough that he coughs a little, taking another generous swig to wash down the pills threatening to resurface.
Bruce is silent, watching Joker's eyes. The way his head starts to fall before he catches himself, clinging onto wakefulness with every ounce of his will. The gun falls from his hand with a clatter, and Joker jerks at the noise but otherwise doesn’t appear to notice what’s happened. It doesn’t matter that he’s lost his weapon.
Not when he never planned to come out of this alive.
“Well, you can’t please every crowd,” Joker says conspiratorially with another laugh, softer this time, gesturing around them as though they aren’t all alone beneath Wayne manor.
Bruce hadn’t realized he’d been moving, but he’s right in front of Joker now, brows furrowed as he takes in the scene. His brain is running out ahead of him, picking out just what all those tablets and capsules are; demerol, vicodin, alprazolam. Some of them are less standard-issue, more Gotham special edition, brightly colored and imprinted with sneering faces. Lines of some kind of powder Bruce can’t identify for sure without tasting are laid out on the desk. It doesn’t matter anymore. Bruce isn’t looking at the desk.
He’s kneeling in front of the chair. He’s touching Joker’s face.
There’s that trembling again. Joker’s fist around his heart. Bruce is ready to break.
God, Bruce is already broken.
“What have you done to yourself, sweetheart? How much did you take?”
Joker’s hands are both empty now. Bruce didn’t notice when he dropped his bottle. There’s the slosh of liquid and the ring of glass as it rolls unevenly under the desk and two icy, clumsy hands on Bruce’s face, Joker’s brow furrowed as he squints. One of his hands falls, like it takes too much effort to keep them both up. Bruce lays his own palm over the one that remains, helps Joker hold it in place against his cheek.
“Can we talk about this in the morning, Batsy? I’m so tired.” Joker closes his eyes, and doesn’t open them again. “Aren’t you getting bored?”
Bruce wants to shake him, because how could he be bored?
Joker is here.
Bruce picks Joker up in his arms, and he is cold all over. The scrubs he’s wearing are soaked from the rain. His makeup is smeared, but that’s nothing new. His mascara is running.
Bruce is running, too.
He’s got Joker in the med-bay a few moments later, tugging out emergency supplies and getting to work. It’s not the first time Bruce has taken care of someone who’s overdosed, deliberately or otherwise, and it won’t be the last, but there is something different about it. This isn’t his family, isn’t his ally, isn’t his friend.
Villain, Bruce thinks, but it feels wrong in his head. Tastes wrong in his mouth. Joker hasn’t truly hurt any of them in a long time. Later, when Bruce picks up his fallen weapon, he’ll find it’s unloaded. Somehow, he already knows.
It takes a while before he’s done all there is to do, an IV running to pump Joker full of fluids. Bruce gives him naloxone, more fluids, liquid charcoal. Antibiotics. A tetanus shot. Then he finds himself wondering about the state of the rest of Joker’s vaccination history and stops himself, walking away to shower the worst of the night off.
Joker’s makeup. Joker’s blood.
When he comes back, he gets Joker cleaned up as best he can. It’s not great, but considering the state of him when he arrived, it’s an improvement. Bruce cuts the ruined scrubs off his body and incinerates them with more satisfaction than he expects. There’s a half-eaten sucker in one of his pockets.
Bruce takes a washcloth to the mess that’s left behind.
Eventually Joker is resting on clean sheets, in a clean hospital gown, machines trilling rhythmically to tell Bruce that Joker’s breathing. His heart is beating, and he’s got enough oxygen. The cuff around his arm beeps and inflates, and after a moment displays his blood pressure on a screen in soft blue lights. His wounds are dressed, none of them serious besides a gouge from what Bruce assumes was razor wire on his left side.
Even that will heal up nicely with just a little attention. Damian has taught Bruce enough that he doesn’t feel quite so useless with a needle any more, or so out of place in the medical suite. He gives him a second dose of naloxone when the first is due to wear off, just in case, and Joker is awake.
He tries to surge upright, but there are padded straps holding him down around his wrists, chest, and waist. Around his thighs, and ankles, softer on the inside than they need to be but strong enough to hold down a superhuman if it comes to that.
If Joker tries to get away right now he’ll only hurt himself. Bruce isn’t going to let that happen. He gives him a moment to get his bearings, straining against his bindings as his eyes roam wildly around the room. When he sees Bruce, out of his uniform and dressed in casual clothes with an empty syringe in his hand, the laughter erupts from him unbidden. Joker rocks back and forth until the bed creaks underneath him, fists clenched so tightly that Bruce wonders if he will have to get out the gloves. It was an oversight, really, not to think of them.
Bruce disposes of the syringe and digs in a nearby drawer for a moment before taking one of Joker’s hands in his, working a thick leather glove down carefully over each of his fingers before fastening a strap at the wrist to keep it in place.
Joker goes wide eyed, staring with his mouth open, expression caught somewhere between glee and horror.
“Ohhhhhh, hohohohohohoho, Batsy, you’ve really outdone yourself.”
Bruce takes care of Joker’s other hand— pays more attention this time as he coaxes his fist open. Stares at his long, delicate fingers. There’s dirt under Joker’s nails, his cuticles scabbed and gnawed.
There’s a child’s Batman ring on one finger, like the kind you get for fifty cents from a gumball machine at the grocery store. Joker’s laughter has eased back into little huffs of air through his nose by the time Bruce is finished.
“Soooooooooooo, how long until the goon squad shows up? Not that I’m in any hurry, these are some nice digs you have here.” Joker pulls on the straps holding him down again, biting his lip suggestively. “Definitely better than they have back home.”
Bruce hums as he leans over Joker, laying a palm on his face and shining a flashlight in his eyes one after the other to watch his pupils dilate.
“Nobody’s coming to get you,” Bruce says, then frowns when it sounds like a threat. “I can take care of you just fine here. You don’t need to go anywhere.”
That sounds like a threat, too, so Bruce picks up a stethoscope from the table nearby to listen to Joker breathe instead. His heart is pounding fast, but there’s no rattle in his lungs and he’s not in any danger now.
When he sits down on the bed Joker is looking at Bruce… the way Bruce has spent far too long looking at Joker; like he is absolutely insane, and there is no way to save him. The laughter that comes next is forced, which is something Bruce has never heard from Joker before, and he doesn’t like it.
“Darling, are you feeling alright? Forgot your lines? This isn’t how the scene goes.” Joker sounds desperate.
Joker sounds afraid. For the first time in a long time, he does not know what will happen next.
Bruce wonders if that makes Joker feel alive.
Wonders if he makes Joker feel alive.
Bruce leans down and kisses him, one hand cupping Joker’s jaw, the other slipping lower so he can lace their fingers together. The sound Joker makes into his mouth is manic, a high pitched whine that has Bruce pulling back to look down at him again. Joker’s brows are raised, eyes glittering with disbelief.
“Ohhhhhhh, I really did it this time, huh? I mean I’m not a bastion of mental wellness but I always know when the music isn’t really playing, you know?” He titters nervously, looking around the room as though there is someone else who can help him. He’s pulling on the straps again. “Bruce, darling, I’m feeling a bit out of sorts. If we could pick this up another time, I’m certain—”
Bruce brings their mouths together again and Joker whimpers, pressing forward to kiss him back, urgent like he is in everything. It’s not easy to gentle him, but Bruce does eventually, lingering against Joker’s lips for long enough that he forgets he had anything to say at all when they break apart.
“That’s the medicine talking,” Bruce says, holding his face, kissing his jaw. “You might feel weak, or nervous,” Bruce murmurs, mouthing down his neck. “You’ll have a fever, and your heart will race.”
Bruce slides a hand under his hospital gown, laying a palm over Joker, fingers closing around the length of him.
“You might start trembling,” Bruce says. “That’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Joker is trembling already. He writhes as best he can in his bindings as Bruce works him slowly, kissing his way down Joker’s throat. Over his collarbones, listening to him gasp. He rucks up the hospital gown to lay Joker bare to the chill of the room; peel away the layers, and he is all skin and bones. Bruce presses a kiss to the gauze over the wound on Joker’s side.
Then he takes him into his mouth. Joker sobs, hips rocking forward to press deeper between his lips, making noises that sound inhuman. His jaw falls open, maybe to speak, but he ends up choking on air instead.
There isn’t enough of Joker to choke Bruce, even with his nose buried in the coarse hair on Joker’s stomach, every inch of him swallowed down. It’s so easy to take him apart.
Bruce doesn’t know who is the last person to get their hands on Joker, but he doubts it went like this, strapped down to a bed with tears streaking down his face. Then again, he’s been at Arkham. Maybe it did, Bruce thinks, then lets the rage swallow him and cannot think at all.
Joker comes with a groan, grinding mindlessly forward into Bruce’s mouth, letting out hitching little breaths.
“You sure know how to treat a lady down here, Batsy,” Joker says, voice high and uncertain. “I don’t know what kinda drugs you got me on, but they’re downright swell. The daylight hallucinations are really hitting the spot.”
Bruce takes his time, trailing kisses all the way up Joker’s body, then lingering on his mouth for a while. He brushes his damp hair back from his face, and pulls back to smile down at him.
“I’m going to get you all fixed up, darling,” Bruce says, ignoring the distant alarms that are ringing in his head. “Just wait and see.”
Joker starts laughing again, and it is different from anything Bruce has heard before, echoing forlornly through the cave.
He sounds afraid, but that’s okay.
Bruce finds he can be patient, now that Joker is here.
Now that Joker is safe.