Chapter Text
“You're late.”
The voice echoed softly through the parking lot, barely glancing off the concrete walls as it reached the man in the tan trenchcoat. It was a voice that betrayed no anger, no irritation, barely showed any emotion at all as its owner dropped his cigarette to the ground and put it out with a well-polished black shoe.
Trenchcoat checked his watch. “You said three.”
“And it's now three minutes past.”
Trenchcoat gave the other man a look that wasn’t acknowledged as he was asked, “Do you have it?”
In reply, a small envelope emerged from Trenchcoat’s inside pocket. “You got the money?”
The other man tapped the briefcase on the floor beside him. “Five hundred thousand, as agreed.”
Trenchcoat reached for the briefcase but it was pushed out of reach and, after a click of the fingers, the envelope was handed over. The other man opened it and pulled out the sheet of paper inside, unfolding it so that small eyes hidden behind round glasses could skim the two words written on the page. Trenchcoat watched, as if expecting some sort of reaction, but the other man’s face, like his voice, gave nothing away.
Stuffing the sheet back into the envelope and placing it safely into his pocket, the other man’s eyes returned to Trenchcoat. “Did you read it?”
“Yeah. A shocker, I gotta say.”
The other man nodded but didn't say anything to that. Instead he asked, “Have you told anyone?”
Trenchcoat looked offended. “‘Course not!” A pause. “Who'd believe me, anyway?”
“Right,” the other man said, picking up the briefcase and finally handing it over. “Don't spend it all at once.”
Trenchcoat laughed and with a nod that signalled the end of the meeting, the other man let him walk away.
Trenchcoat made it three steps before a bullet entered the back of his head.
The other man pulled out his phone and dialled.
“I've got a name,” he said, walking over to the fallen body and picking up the briefcase. He didn’t spare a glance at the dead man. A clean up crew was already on the way. He had more important things to deal with now.
“Bruce Wayne.”
…
“And in local news, Arkham Asylum has announced the release of Jonathan Crane. Better known as The Scarecrow, a figure that has terrorised Gotham for years, Crane’s release marks the culmination of Arkham’s rehabilitation project introduced a year ago. Spearheaded by Mayor Candace Marshall as part of the election campaign that saw her replace Sebastian Hady last year, all eyes will now be on both her and Crane to see whether the project is a success.”
The channel switched over as Bruce walked in with a jaw snapping yawn.
“I’d offer another cup of coffee,” Alfred said, placing the remote down on the coffee table. “But you’ve already downed two.”
“Don’t need coffee, Alfred,” Bruce replied. “I need sleep.”
“Should’ve thought of that before you decided to become a vigilante.”
Bruce threw a half-hearted glare Alfred’s way and wiggled his bow tie into place. Batman wasn’t the issue, at least not to him, it was the socialite routine Alfred had always insisted he keep up that was the problem. But it was an old argument neither of them had ever been able to settle and he didn't bother digging it up now. Instead, he reached for his suit jacket and was about to slide his arms into the sleeves when Alfred stopped him.
“It’ll never cease to amaze me that a man can learn multiple languages, become proficient in Lord knows how many martial arts, and yet never get the hang of tying a bloody bow around his neck.”
Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes and stood patiently as the old man fussed, feeling more like a teenager getting ready for prom than the forty-something man he actually was. He looked down when something fell into his hands.
“I trust you won’t need help with that.”
Bruce arched his brow.
“A bat? That’s subtle. Want me to skip the tux and put the rest of the suit on while I’m at it?”
“Wouldn’t want you to be too comfortable tonight, sir.”
Bruce didn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes that time. The old man wasn't anywhere near as funny as he thought he was, and when he was out of earshot, Bruce mumbled a curse.
…
He refused to wear the mask at first. Something about tempting fate didn’t appeal. But when he arrived to see he was the only one not wearing one, he knew it was better to follow the crowd than go against it. So, he reluctantly strapped the mask over his eyes, laughing at every Batman joke and reference thrown his way while he cursed Alfred’s name some more.
The mask did have its uses, though. Mainly that it hid the dark circles ringing his eyes. Last night had been long, followed by an even longer day and his body ached, even more than usual. It ached right down to the bone. Not a new sensation, perhaps, but the weariness carried a sharpness that hadn’t been there before.
Three weeks ago the Joker broke out of Arkham. Again, nothing new, but the events that led to Joker’s latest capture had left Bruce hoping, no matter how hard he’d tried not to, that things would be different this time around. They weren’t. The Joker was loose once again, plotting and scheming whatever new brand of chaos his deranged mind could come up with, and Bruce was left dragging the disappointment around with him like a ship dragging its anchor. He didn’t even have it in him to feel angry. He just felt…stupid. That night, nine months ago, born out of desperation - and something else he’d never given name to - he’d gone out on a limb and made an offer to the Joker. He’d exposed himself in a way he never had with anybody else.
And the Joker had thrown it back in his face.
Bruce’s descent into melancholy was interrupted by someone clearing their throat and he turned to come face to face with a lioness. The woman behind the mask he recognised instantly: Candace Marshall.
Bruce’s feelings about her were mixed. On the one hand, her election had proven to give the city a much-needed boost. Her campaign had been full of all the usual promises that politicians never kept, but now that some of those promises were actually being delivered, even Bruce had to admit that maybe she was the right person for the job. Maybe. But there was a snag. She hated Batman. She’d made it very clear from day one that her Gotham had no use for him, that he was a thug who encouraged as much crime as he solved, and while she wasn’t the first politician to say it, she was the first to push Jim Gordon hard enough for him to actually consider removing the signal from the GCPD roof.
Batman’s job had become that much harder.
Bruce offered his hand with a smile. “Madam Mayor, so glad you could make it.”
“Mister Wayne.” The smile that spread across Marshall’s lips was smaller but no less fake. “Thank you for inviting me. It’s not normally my scene but I couldn’t resist for such a good cause.”
“I appreciate it,” Bruce said, before pointing to the ornate mask covering the top half of her face. “And the mask isn’t bad, either.”
“Well, I’d like to think it’s in slightly better taste than yours.”
The smile was gone, the disapproval written clearly on her face. Well, at least nobody could accuse her of being a suck up.
He pointed to himself with a “who, me?” expression.
“Oh, the bat? Yeah, my butler seems to think he has a good sense of humour.” He held up his hands as if in surrender. “But don’t worry, the streets are safe from this bat, at least.”
“I don't think your butler’s humour is the only one that's questionable,” Marshall said, the disapproval beginning to feed into her words. “It's hard to find anything funny about a dangerous man roaming the streets freely every night.”
“Of course,” Bruce said before deciding to test the waters. “But he doesn’t scare me half as much as the others.”
“Really?”
“Well, sure. I mean, he only goes after criminals, right? And I'm not one, so...” he trailed off with a shrug.
“So far,” she argued, shifting into the defensive. “But what's to stop him crossing that line? Nobody should be above the law and this man has law enforcement sitting in his pocket.” She took a sip of her drink but clearly wasn’t finished. “Not to mention the huge resources it must take to be Batman. Resources that could go into improving this city. It's not hyperbole when I say he’s a bigger threat to Gotham than the Joker.”
Bruce almost spat out his drink. Whatever people thought of Batman, nobody had accused him of being worse than the Joker before.
Yeah, Batman’s job was about to become very difficult.
Before he could respond, someone else caught Marshall’s attention and, with a smile and a goodbye, she quickly disappeared into the crowd. It took Bruce a moment to realise he hadn’t even touched the topic he wanted to discuss with her. He took a deep breath. Crane would have to wait.
He glanced at his watch. The night was much younger than he felt and it was too early for him to disappear, so he had no choice but to throw himself fully into the Wayne persona. The party was his idea, after all. He mingled, thanked each person he passed for coming and made sure they knew exactly where to put their money, and when a beautiful and refreshingly forward young woman showed her interest in a dance, Bruce didn’t hesitate to accept. And she was surprisingly good company, able to even pull a few genuine smiles out of him as they talked on the dance floor.
It was halfway through their dance when someone quietly asked to cut in. Given the number of eyes following her around the room, he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner and, grateful for the interruption, even if he did enjoy her company, Bruce stepped back with an outstretched hand to let the other man take his place.
When the man took his hand and bumped Jane out of the way with his hip, Bruce wasn’t quite sure what to do.
“I wasn’t talking to him, Sweetheart,”
The man giggled.
Bruce froze.
For a second the metaphorical mask almost - almost - slipped. Bruce’s heart skipped one single beat before thudding furiously in his chest, blood roaring in his ears as the room around him faded to focus entirely on the face in front of him. A face he hadn’t seen since that night. A face that had been covered in blood, rain and tears as Batman made a last ditch attempt to salvage the destructive mess they’d become.
A face that was a lot less colourful in the amber lit room. To face the Joker was to be assaulted with colour but there was none to be found here. Except for the mask. A jester mask. Fitting.
“Thought she’d never leave,” Joker said, giggling again, and that was when Bruce came back to himself.
“Do I know you?” he asked and hoped the forced smile was convincing because there was something in the way Joker looked at him that set every one of his nerves on edge.
A grin spread wide across Joker’s lips and he leaned in.
“Oh, we know each other very well,” he said. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
Ice ran through Bruce’s veins. He tried to pull his hand away. Joker tightened his grip. The distance between them closed even further as Joker dropped his voice to a whisper. “Or, should I say Batman?”
Whatever slim chance Bruce might’ve thought he had died in that instant. He tugged his hand more forcefully to try to pry it out of Joker’s grip but felt nails press into his skin.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Joker said, voice still soft, still pleasant. “I asked for a dance.”
Bruce dropped the pretence. “I’m not dancing with you.”
“Oh, I think you are, darling, and you’re gonna look like you’re enjoying it, too.” Joker leaned in far too close and Bruce refused to give way to the shudder caused by the warm breath against his ear. “Because, if you don’t, I can’t guarantee that the people in this room will still be breathing when they leave.”
Bruce clenched his other hand into a fist. He considered using it, dragging Joker out of the room by the scruff of the neck. He was so close. It would be so easy…
No. He couldn't do that. He couldn’t be Batman, not here, not with these people, no matter how hard Joker tried to pull it out of him. No matter how much Bruce wanted to. He was Bruce Wayne and that man didn't have a violent bone in his body.
He closed his eyes and breathed in, letting a heartbeat pass before he exhaled. Then he opened his eyes, met the toxic green gaze staring back at him and forced his body to relax. Feeling the change, Joker loosened his grip and rested his other hand on Bruce's shoulder, ready for the dance. But Bruce didn’t want to dance. He didn’t want to do this, didn't want to play the same old game, make the same old moves and end it all the same old way. He didn’t want to have to fight anymore.
Joker’s voice cut through the noise. “We’re standing in the middle of a dance floor and we’re not dancing. People might think we’re weird.”
Laughter snapped Bruce out of his thoughts and it was just enough to make him close the remaining distance, although it took a literal helping hand from Joker to bring Bruce’s palm to Joker’s waist.
“Atta boy,” Joker murmured, returning his hand to Bruce’s shoulder.
Slowly, they began to move in a gentle circular sway. Bruce tried to distract himself from how wrong it all felt by assessing the man in front of him. Beyond the lack of colour he noted how…good? No. How expensive Joker looked. His tuxedo put most of the others in the room to shame. Bruce refused to speculate on where - or how - Joker had gotten it. The wild green curls were brown and slicked back and when Bruce dared to let his eyes linger on Joker’s face, he realised that the skin visible beneath the mask was only a couple of shades lighter than his own.
“See something you like?” Joker asked.
“What do you want, Joker?”
Joker pressed a finger to Bruce’s lips. “Watch that tongue of yours, dearest, or mine might just start wagging.”
Again, Bruce closed his eyes to breathe.
“I won’t, by the way,” Joker continued, his tone sickeningly pleasant, like he wasn't holding Bruce there against his will. Like he hadn’t just threatened the lives of everyone in the room. “Share your secret, that is. Far too much fun this way. And it’s nice to finally put a face to the fists!”
Joker’s laughter reverberated loudly in Bruce’s eardrums. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. Do. This.
“What do you want?” he asked again, the question slipping into a demand.
“I already told you,” Joker replied. “I wanna dance. Just one little dance with Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. Been a frightfully lonely few months, Brucie - nine to be exact - and I needed cheering up. Been going through a bit of a break-up, you see. There’s this guy I was seeing - you might know him, actually - and I thought it was all going so well, until, one day, he just swoops in and locks me up without even so much as a how’s-your-father. Never calls, never writes.” He sighed theatrically. “It’s enough to break a poor guy’s heart.”
There was an edge to Joker’s voice that made Bruce look away. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t written.
Hadn’t visited.
“And I gotta say, Brucie-Boy,” Joker said, the edge gone as quickly as it’d come. “You sure know how to treat your guests. I mean, the champagne’s gotta be worth more than most Gothamites make in a year, am I right?”
“How did you get in?”
Joker leaned back and gave Bruce a look. “What, you think you’re the only one who hires escorts for this sorta thing?”
Bruce wished he hadn’t asked. He didn’t want to think about someone arriving on the arm of the Joker. His eyes circled the room to figure out who the hell it could be. Plenty of eyes were on them but none of them seemed too upset to see Bruce dancing with their escort. Although one couple on the dance floor apparently didn’t approve of two men dancing together if the look they threw at them was anything to go by. A look Joker met with a great big smile. Bruce thought his brain was about to short circuit.
Joker tutted and started kneading Bruce’s shoulder.
“You seem tense, Brucie.”
“Can’t think why.”
“Aw, now don’t be like that,” Joker whined. “You’re playing all hard-to-get right now but I know there’s just a teensy tiny little part of you that’s glad to see me.”
Bruce didn't respond and Joker leaned in until their noses touched, those impossibly green eyes drilling holes into his. The moment seemed to stretch out forever until it was broken by a high-pitched laugh that Joker cut off by slapping a hand across his mouth. Any eyes that weren’t on them before definitely were now.
Bruce unconsciously tightened his grip, patience ready to snap.
“Oh, darling,” Joker whispered, the words slipping out between stifled giggles. “If I’d known how much you missed me, I’d have broken out months ago!”
Bruce didn’t reply, irritated and alarmed by how easily Joker had just read him. Eager to deflect, he asked, “How did you escape?”
“I didn’t.”
Bruce frowned. “But, you just-”
“Ah, I said I would have,” Joker corrected, wagging a finger. “Not that I did. Oh, sure, it was made to look like an escape. Oh so convincing…”
Joker paused, giving Bruce another long look.
“But I know the difference between escape and release.”
Another pause. Bruce’s head was suddenly full of questions. If it was true, it changed everything.
If it was true.
“Why would they release you?” he asked, fighting furiously against the renewed hope already prickling in his chest. He wouldn’t do it. Not again.
“Y’know,” Joker said, his tone thoughtful. “I’m wondering the same thing, myself.” A wide grin spread across his mouth. “It’s kept me very busy these last few weeks, lemme tell you.”
“How so?”
“Oh, if only Mr. Tall, Dark and Brooding was as chatty as you! He’d best be careful. I might have a new favourite.”
Bruce glowered.
“Oh, alright! If you must know, I’ve been trying my hand at a little detective work. Bats would be proud! Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to discover who’s responsible but what I have uncovered makes for some salacious bedside reading.”
Joker inched closer, noses almost touching again, and Bruce found himself torn between the choice to lean in or back away.
“For both of us.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Bruce asked.
“Well, aren’t you curious about how I figured out your not-so-little secret?” Joker walked his fingers along Bruce’s right shoulder, climbing up his neck and face to gently flick his temple. “It pains me to admit but I never woulda done it myself. Not that I was ever looking but.” A grin. “Even I have to admit this mask’s impressive.”
Never would have done it himself. Which begged the question: who did?
“Of course,” Joker continued, acting oblivious to Bruce’s mounting panic. “When you take a closer look, as I am right now, you start to see the little signs that perhaps Bruce Wayne isn’t what he pretends to be.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Meaning?”
Joker wrapped his hand around Bruce’s fingers to bring Bruce’s hand up between them.
“I mean,” Joker said, voice lowering as he traced his thumb across Bruce's knuckles. “That a man who supposedly spends his days doing nothing more than eating, drinking and fucking doesn’t end up with the hands of a bare knuckle boxer.”
Bruce wanted to pull his hand away again but didn’t. There was no point. Truth be told, he’d never considered how his hands looked. Nobody else had ever said a thing about them. But Joker always had a thing for details. Especially when it came to Batman.
Joker eventually readjusted his grip, bringing their hands to his chest and snaking his other arm around Bruce's neck. It made the dance even more intimate and Bruce hated it. Hated how little control he had in the moment as they danced, as the threat of death hung over everyone else in the room.
“Relax,” Joker cooed. “Despite what you think, I didn’t come here to hurt anyone. I just needed to get your attention. Once this little number’s finished, I’ll be outta your hair and you can wine and dine the rest of the night away in peace.”
Bruce shook his head. “You know I can't just let you leave.”
“Well, you're gonna have to, I'm afraid. This thing is just a little bit bigger than us right now.”
Bruce didn’t know what to say to that and as much as he wanted to push, he couldn't afford to. There was too much at stake.
They moved together, hand in hand, cheek to cheek, swaying in time to the gentle hum of violins until, eventually, the music stopped and Joker finally allowed some small but much-needed distance between them. He didn’t let go of Bruce’s hand, though.
“Well, that was more fun than I’ve had in a long time,” Joker said with a grin that wasn't entirely malicious. “Send Batsy my regards and remember -” he wagged a finger at Bruce. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
With a quick pat of Bruce's cheek, Joker released his hand and was about to walk away when he paused.
“Oh, might wanna check your pockets.”
Before Bruce could ask what that meant, Joker sauntered through the crowd, Bruce following him with his eyes all the way. It wasn’t until Joker disappeared completely that Bruce finally released a long and unsteady sigh.
Someone approached him as he left the dance floor but he walked right past them. He wasn’t in the mood for any more conversation.
In the bathroom, Bruce stopped at the nearest basin and tore off the mask. It hit the floor with a sharp clack. He ran the faucet and splashed cold water onto his face, rubbing his heated skin as if he could erase the entire evening from existence.
He stood there for a long time, hands clutching the rim of the basin tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Stared at his reflection as the water dried into his pores and then slammed his hands down hard against the white marble, letting the shock of pain sharpen his mind.
He wanted to shout and scream and kick, punch, destroy everything within his reach. He wanted to race onto the streets and find Joker and beat him bloody. He wanted to run home to get Alfred on the first flight out of Gotham. He wanted -
Bruce dropped his head, breathing deeply. In, out, in, out until the fog cleared. He pushed away from the basin and paced the bathroom to walk off the last of the fit until Joker’s words came back to him.
Check your pockets.
Bruce patted his jacket and felt something in the left pocket. He reached in and pulled out a flash drive. It was small, purple (of course) and, if Joker wasn’t playing some elaborate prank on him, might answer a few of the many questions crowding Bruce’s brain.
He tucked it back into the pocket and, as he left the bathroom, decided the party was over. He triggered the fire alarm as he headed for the exit. Joker was a wily, unpredictable bastard and Bruce wasn’t willing to take the risk. His guests wouldn’t appreciate being hosed down by sprinklers but they’d like it a whole lot more than being dead.