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“So unless you want all of Gotham to contract a case of the giggles , meet me at Ace Chemicals, twelve o’clock sharp .” The Joker spins around on his heels, clasping his hands behind his back, only then moving to look at the camera from the corner of one eye, smiling all the while. “I’ll be waiting, Batsy .”
Batman white-knuckles the wheel of the Batmobile as it speeds down the barren streets of Gotham’s Narrows. He replays the clip again; Joker’s performances are always loud and over the top, but telling Batman exactly where to go and find him isn’t the clown’s typical M.O.
Most Gothamites had locked themselves into their homes or evacuated since the clown’s broadcast ended, hoping that either the Batman would solve their issue as he usually does, or praying that Joker’s laughing gas wouldn’t be able to breach their homes. Many had been enjoying a purported reprieve from Joker’s acts of bloody mirth and whimsy lately. In fact, most had not seen nor heard from the man in a long time, and hoped this meant that the Joker was taking a permanent retirement from his usual work. Well, until this stunt, that is.
The bright LED headlights of the Batmobile are working overtime to keep Bruce grounded despite his racing thoughts. Joker hadn’t made any public appearances in months outside common criminal acts like robbery and deft attempts to irk the Bat. Despite the lack of drama, Bruce had been quite busy subduing Joker anyway: bodies pressed desperately against one another in abandoned warehouses, intimate rendezvous in the Batmobile before making their way to Arkham Asylum, and tongues fiercely battling while frantic hands explored each other's bodies.
Many of their initial trysts were a complete blur for Bruce; self-destructive, impulsive, idiotic. One bad day for the Batman turned into months of acting on compulsions he’s felt for years surrounding his mortal enemy. Even though the consequences could be catastrophic—losing his family, his friends, his city—he felt a sense of liberation, almost like restraining himself around Joker had been weighing on him all this time. There was a silent, mutual agreement between them that nothing about their game had changed, only that a new set of complex rules were at play. The Batman would still fight the Joker in their never ending battle of morals and wills, but now Bruce could explore his more complex emotions regarding the Joker. Plus, Joker gets to receive extra attention from Batman, too. A win-win for everyone, so to speak.
The potholes, broken concrete, and gravel of the old factory’s retired parking lot rock Bruce back to full reality. He had become far too comfortable with their new dance. No, not comfortable, complicit— especially while he continues to let Joker off the hook more than he would like to admit.
The car swerves to a hard stop as Batman begins to sort through the many ways he could resolve this mess as quickly and as efficiently as possible. Even though more complicated steps had recently been added to their masquerade, he had no intention of allowing the Joker to kill people. He stalks towards the front of the building, blood boiling and jaw clenched.
“Took you long enough!” chimes an all too familiar voice, “You really know how to keep a girl waiting, huh?” Joker stands wide-legged in front of Ace Chemicals, exasperatedly gesturing with his right hand while the scrounged together metal of a makeshift detonator adorns his left.
Bruce barrels up the stairs to the entrance, thick boots slamming onto concrete steps, “Where’s the gas, Joker?”
“Uhn uhn uhhhn ,” Joker waggles his finger left and right, “I can’t let you in on my little secret just yet, can I? Where’s the fun in that?!” Joker puts one hand on his hip and gestures wildly with the other. He seems unusually… sweaty? Beads of thick perspiration building on his brow, wiped away by a smiley-face handkerchief untucked from his breast pocket. It’s the beginning of September, and there’s nothing particularly hot about tonight.
“Oh no, darling . I have something in—gimme just a second, will ya?” Joker makes his way closer to the building, putting his free hand against the wall. He takes a couple deep breaths, closing his eyes tightly. The lenses of the cowl catch a higher temperature than normal, even considering Joker’s physiology.
Joker takes his hand off the wall and stands again, though not seeming fully recuperated. “As I was saying, I have something in mind for you tonight, Batsy. Something—”
“Are you alright?” Batman inches forward, reaching his hand out from within his cape. All the strange movements, the sweat, his breathing. He’s never seen Joker act this way before, at least not when he’s monologuing.
Joker makes an irritated huff. “I’m fine .” He dismissively waves Batman’s gesture away, attempting to get back into character before moving forward with his speech. “I’ve spent months perfecting a new strand of gas just for tonight, Bats. Before long, all of Gotham will finally be laughing with me once I press this button.” His giggles build into a loud roar of laughter as he proudly presents the detonator that he’d been casually swinging about just minutes before.
“It’s just you and me, baby.” He waves the device two inches from Batman’s face. “If you want to stop me,” a hint of a smile builds on his lips, “you’re going to have to take this from me.” Keeping an eye on the detonator, Bruce prepares his body to lunge forward and attack, but quickly stops dead in his tracks.
As soon as Joker finishes his sentence, his free hand rushes up to his face, shadowing his features. His skin—usually barren and pale—had tinged a slight green in an instant, and he fell to his knees, vomiting yellow bile onto the cement at their feet.
Shocked, Bruce hesitates to do anything but stand there for a moment. He then crouches down and tries to rub the man’s back with his gauntlet, seeking to provide any kind of support he can. Despite already noting the high internal temperature with the cowl, Bruce frees his other hand and presses the back of it to Joker’s forehead. The clown burns furiously and has clearly been feverish for a while now.
With his stomach emptied, Joker begins to dry-heave while struggling to push Bruce’s hands away. “Listen, I’m fine,” he starts, a cough interrupting his rebuff, “I don’t need your help.”
“You clearly have a fever, and you’re throwing up as we speak.” Bruce reaches out to touch Joker’s hair, which is reciprocated by an aimless swat.
“Okay, maybe I overdid it a bit.” Joker sighs as he goes to fully sit down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “But Bats,” he whines, “I’ve been planning this for months! Do you know how difficult it is to get large shipments of chemicals into Gotham without you noticing? How many men I’ve had to kill to make sure it was kept under wraps until it was ready?”
Bruce fails to repress a wince at that last statement. He knew that he had been overlooking many of Joker’s more excusable, petty behaviors due to the recent change in their relationship, but despite that, he had naively hoped that Joker wouldn’t continue to cause so much trouble for him.
Joker sighs heavily, leaning forward and closing his eyes. “I wanted tonight to be perfect , but here you go ruining it all!” His statement starts small but quickly crescendos into one final loud and abrasive shout which seems to take all of his energy.
Bruce gently places his hands under Joker’s knees and back before lifting him up, attempting to support the clown’s head with his shoulder. The only indication of his cognizance despite his slack body is the annoyed furrow of his eyebrows.
“Where’s the gas, Joker?” Bruce tries again with a tone more tender than he had intended. Joker closes his eyes and leans into the touch, seemingly exhausted and clearly worn down from overexerting himself while sick. Bruce begins walking the both of them down the steps and opens the passenger door to the Batmobile. “Joker, I need you to help me.”
The soothing sounds of the Gotham Bay take over as they both remain silent. This is its own game: their constant fight for a form of control, a way to keep the other guessing the next move.
“Give me a hint at least.” Bruce places Joker into the passenger seat of the Batmobile, averting his eyes from Joker’s obvious pouting.
With one big sigh, Joker relents, “Aren’t you supposed to be the ‘World’s Greatest Detective?’ It’s obviously on the roof.”
While Batman never usually took Joker at his word, this seemed like a special instance where the rules didn’t apply. Stepping over to his side of the car, he calls Gordon and informs him of the liters of laughing gas left on the roof of the factory.
“Where’s the Joker?” Jim comes loud and clear over the commlink. Bruce considers his options, taking another look at the man sitting reluctantly—but still willingly—in the vehicle.
“I’m currently on his trail. I’ll have to leave the rest to you.” Ending the call before Jim has a chance to respond, Batman hops into his car, revving the engine and setting his GPS to the nearest utility bunker.
Glancing over, Bruce notices Joker’s closed eyes and relaxed face. He becomes incredibly peaceful when he’s not putting on a front or causing chaos everywhere he goes, and Bruce wishes he could savor this side of Joker for longer than he would like to admit.
• • •
“Master Bruce, are you quite sure you’d rather stay at the penthouse tonight?”
Bruce drives the Batmobile into the nearest safe house bunker that’s built throughout Gotham. He can’t risk letting Alfred know the situation, but he also doesn’t want to outright lie. “Like I said, patrol ended early tonight, and I feel like getting an early start tomorrow.”
Alfred clicks his tongue on the other end of the line and is quiet for what feels like an eternity. “Please take care of yourself, sir. I’ll meet you here in the morning.”
Bruce quickly ends the call and moves to pick Joker up out of the passenger seat. He’s extremely feverish but still sleeping, so Batman moves slowly but with purpose to the examination cot set up in the hideout. These bunkers were built with emergencies in mind, so they’re stocked with medical supplies, food, and other necessities rather than built for things like comfort or style.
Bruce immediately gets to work, pulling off his cowl and gauntlets and setting up an IV drip for Joker in his sleep. While Joker is no stranger to guns, knives, and all manner of dangerous weapons, he has a glaring fear of needles, especially when it concerns himself. While often Batman and Joker are in the throes of a fight, when injured Bruce has always attempted to nurse Joker back to a stable condition. Joker has made it very clear multiple times that if he doesn’t absolutely need an IV drip, he won’t accept one specifically because of the insertion of the needle.
With the IV insertion complete, Bruce pulls up a chair and sits at Joker’s bedside. Even with the events of the evening weighing on his mind, Bruce can’t help but grab Joker’s hand. He begins slowly rubbing circles on his palm, thumbing the various scars, bumps, and other imperfections present. Joker’s usual white gloves are absent tonight, and his black nail polish seems new, except for a few miniscule chips near the edges; the back of his hand feels like satin against Bruce’s rough fingertips.
Joker’s sharp features seem almost soft in his relaxed state. With his lips lax and his brow unfurrowed, the man is unnaturally attractive. While most find Joker’s clown-like visage disturbing, Bruce has become more and more fond of the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles and the way his lips part when he begins to speak.
Bruce stares as Joker’s chest rises and falls in a gentle rhythm, and presses his pointer and middle finger into the side of Joker’s wrist. His heartbeat, while concerning for anyone else, seems only slightly elevated for Joker, and his fever is running close to 102 degrees Fahrenheit. Considering his other symptoms, it seems Joker has a case of the flu. Bruce huffs a laugh at the thought of The Clown Prince of Crime being taken down by a mere illness and not by his beloved Bat. Bruce’s amusement dissipates quickly as he begins to wonder about what kinds of food or liquids Joker had consumed recently. Considering Joker is an extremely picky eater, there’s no way he made sure to eat regular meals throughout the day, let alone stop to drink plenty of water.
Batman inches his chair closer to the head of the bed, bringing his face in to look more closely at the color of Joker’s skin and the hollowness of his cheeks when Joker’s eyes pop open wide as if feeling his presence.
“Why, hello there.”
Bruce moves his face away in a flash, and a wave of embarrassment washes over him. Heat courses through him, and a knot forms in the pit of his stomach.
“It’s only 2 AM,” Bruce pushes back and stands up out of his chair to grab at the IV drip. “This is almost finished. When was the last time you ate?” He turns around, avoiding the clown’s gaze, and makes his way to the fridge stocked with nutrient and protein rich grab-n-go packs specifically designed and created by Wayne Enterprises.
Joker, eyes half-lidded and disoriented, rips the IV out of his arm and throws it to the floor like a child, blood flowing out of the now open wound. “Wouldn't you like to know,” the clown stumbles out of bed onto the floor, knocking the IV stand over in the process and bursting the bag and spilling the remaining contents. He tries to push off the ground with his hands but can’t muster the energy to stand completely on his own.
Batman turns swiftly and bends to help Joker off the ground, but is stopped when the side of a cool blade presses into his cheek. Joker’s manic blown eyes pierce through his, “Oh, Batsy,” Joker flashes a smile that could kill, “I don’t think I asked for your help.”
Batman knows that Joker will be reluctant to receive help for anything he would consider a weakness. It was one of the more obviously human parts about him, refusing help from others; Bruce knew that Joker would try to counteract it with violence, but there was still some part of him that found it slightly endearing in the end.
Bruce stands slowly as the knife falls from Joker’s lax hand down to the floor. Joker, sweating and clearly disoriented, manages to grab the edge of the medical bed and stand on his own before finally sitting down. He presses a hand into the open wound on his arm.
It wasn’t about not wanting Batman to dote on him and be at his beck and call. It’s that Joker was satisfied with their unspoken arrangement. Letting Batman get too close meant giving him hope that he was willing to change. For Joker, adding in their bouts of lustful tension was a bizarre and welcome bonus to their situation.
“Forgive me, darling,” he waves a hand in a dismissive manner while leaning back on the other. “Can’t say I’m feeling completely like my usual self today.” He brings a hand to the side of his face, framing his cheek with his palm and hoping to appease Bruce enough to end this little charade.
“You have the flu, you need rest.” Bruce walks forward and places a hand on Joker’s forehead, which is quickly brushed off. “More importantly, you need to eat something. Here.” He goes to hand Joker one of the packs from the fridge, holding it there for what seems like an absurd amount of time before relenting and dropping it into Joker’s open lap.
“Like I said, Batsy . I’m just not feeling like myself.” He tilts his head and smiles one of his signature grins. “Thank you for the IV, I’m leaving.” Joker stands swiftly and starts to walk towards the exit, when he begins to breathe heavily in excess and his movements slow. He knows he’s sick, but this isn’t about getting better, this is about not letting Batman see him as anything more than a means to an end.
He grabs the door knob to turn it when Bruce’s hand lands firmly on top of his, gripping it like a vice.
“I don’t recall giving you the option.”
Joker stands still; the weight of the Bat’s hand on his, the nausea taking hold of his stomach, and their physical closeness are all making him extremely warm. He huffs out a deep, full-bodied sigh and looks up at Bruce through his bangs. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?” Bruce stands there, jaw clenched and hand still. “Fine, but I’ll have you know, I’m a terrible patient.”
He lifts his hand and Joker saunters back over to the medical bed, jumping in to get comfortable with the thin sheet and the tough pillow. “But first, you’re going to feed me.” Joker nuzzles his face into the pillow with the blanket pulled all the way up to this chin.
For the second time in one night, Bruce almost laughs at the strangeness of the situation. His mortal enemy, recent lover, and now patient, eyes closed, mouth open, reluctantly waits for Batman to feed him prepackaged mush. Batman walks back to the chair placed next to the bed and grabs the package and a spoon.
With the clown’s mouth wide open, Bruce goes to feed him the first spoonful when Joker jerks his head and bites down onto Batman’s exposed hand. In an instant, the spoon falls to the floor, and a knot forms in Bruce’s throat. A rush of anger flows through him, and he shoots his uninjured hand forward, wrapping it around Joker’s pale windpipe.
Joker’s face contorts into a gross amalgamation of fear and excitement, his voice crackling through the pain, “Too kinky for you?”
Batman’s grip tightens in response to the cheeky comment, “Do that again, and you'll need to recover from a lot more than just a fever.” He releases his tight hold on the man and bends down to pick the spoon up off the floor. The bite didn’t break skin, but it definitely awakened something in Bruce that he doesn’t want to deal with right now.
“Touchy, touchy,” Joker rubs his neck, still reveling in the way that the Bat had easily manhandled him but consigning to being fed once more. After a couple of spoonfuls of strawberry-banana flavored smoothie, Joker decides to push some more buttons, “Catwoman was right about you, ya know? She said you could never really have a normal relationship—not you.”
Without skipping a beat, Bruce continues to feed the clown until the packet of smoothie is completely empty.
“She said you were ‘stifling’ her freedom, and that you wanted to hide her away from the rest of the world.”
Bruce turns away from the clown and places the plastic spoon and the smoothie packet in the trash can.
One of his biggest regrets was his falling out with Selina. When they first met years back, he was immediately entranced with her. A strong, independent woman who always pushed him to be his best self while still being able to accept the worst he could offer. It all changed when he got too close and tried to stop her from being herself. His hypocrisy led to the two of them parting, though still in a fairly amicable way, where they still maintain contact regularly.
Joker props himself up on his elbows. “Honestly, If I were her,” he smirks, staring daggers into the Bat’s back, “I would’ve broken up with you too.”
Batman swiftly turns, lunges forward, and grabs Joker by the lapels of his dress shirt, lifting him up out of the bed. Their alleyway escapades only started because Bruce felt alone and knew that the Joker—who claims to love him unconditionally—would be someone he could focus his energy into. Years of physical tension building between the two, ignored by Bruce because of Joker being, well, the Joker. It was in his weakest moment that he realized that being with the Joker was even a possibility. While others saw him as nothing more than a murderer and a monster, Bruce was always drawn to the humanity in him. And what better way to express that than by engaging in carnal desire so unique to man?
“What would someone like you know about a normal relationship?”
“There he is,” Joker’s shaking hands reach up to grab Bruce’s strong wrists, searching for some kind of stability and bringing himself closer to the other’s body. His eyes convey a subtle combination of excitement and fear that sends a strange shiver down Bruce’s spine.
Pressing into Bruce like this is an obviously calculated move. Joker’s terribly disguised excitement tents his finely pressed pleated pants, his smile dissipating to make room for slightly parted lips searching for something to say. A warmth builds in Bruce’s face. He realizes that of all things, the clown had goaded him into some kind of sick dirty talk.
In a moment of shock and disgust at his own arousal, Batman immediately lets go of Joker’s collar. He takes half a step back, and feels the quickly arising pain from his restrictive codpiece. The back of his neck burns.
Joker drops down to the edge of the cot with a gasp, his bottom and lower back throb with a rushing pain as he slams into the hard mattress of the medical bed. Joker’s groin twitches with the sudden rush of adrenaline. Pushing himself up the best he can, he readjusts to sit fully off the edge, facing Bruce unashamedly with legs parted.
“Well don’t stop now, big boy,” Joker drags a hand down his own chest and runs the other through his hair. “Things were just getting started .”
The knot in Bruce’s stomach grows as his thoughts race a mile a minute. Joker’s running a 102 degree fever with no signs of it dropping soon, his body is shaking, and a clear sheen of sweat has yet again covered his brow. Though Bruce hates to admit how excited this sight makes him, Joker is clearly in no condition to be engaging in their usual affairs.
An angry frown adorns Joker’s flushed face as he clicks his tongue, “Do I have to do everything myself?” In one swift motion he releases the codpiece from its holding and palms Bruce through his undergarments, lazily feeling for the slit to pull him through.
The warmth from Joker’s hand combined with the incessant kneading motion makes the ball of tension in Bruce’s stomach tear in an instant. He uses his fingers to separate the layers of fabric in his spandex, aiding Joker’s search.
“Don’t act like you don’t know where it is,” he grumbles in between huffs as Joker coaxes Bruce’s hard cock out of its containment. Failing to fight off his baser instincts, Bruce inches forward, his upper thighs hitting the edge of the bed with a soft thud.
Joker’s face twists up to meet Bruce’s half-lidded eyes, hand wrapped tightly around the other’s shaft, “You get so honest like this, Brucie.” His agonizingly slow strokes pull the slightest of grunts out of the Bat. “All that anger turning into desire so quickly for me.”
“Don’t test me.” Bruce grabs Joker’s waistband and tears down the slacks to reveal his poorly concealed boner. He takes his hand and places it on Joker’s slender waist, digging his fingertips into flesh. With the other, he touches his thumb to Joker’s wet tip, dragging down towards the base.
Joker’s entire body shivers as he lets out a painful moan, “Ahh, slow your roll, cowboy.” He places a hand on Bruce’s chest, pushing his torso back a bit, “Ease up on the spurs a little.”
Forcing Bruce away, Joker takes his own scarred hand and wraps it around them both, using what little precum they have as lube. Bruce focuses his hands on Joker’s hips, concentrating on the new sensation of the other’s cock against his.
Joker’s dick is blazing hot, but that’s no surprise considering his condition. His breathing has become labored and heavy, and he’s not as verbal or demanding as he usually is. No egging Batman on, no snide comments, just breathing and soft, guttural moans.
“God, I can hear you thinking,” Joker sighs, adding his other hand to circle around their cocks. He strokes impatiently with both arms, chasing his climax. The sudden change in pace makes Bruce’s hips buck, his fingertips gripping like a vice. A moan escapes Bruce’s lips and Joker’s subsequent whine turns into a pleased laugh at the sound.
With his fever burning and his body aching, Joker’s burst of energy dissipates and his fast pace slows. He cries and whimpers, begging for stimulation as he leans his forehead into Bruce’s shoulder. Keeping the speed, Bruce’s thrusts take over as Joker tightens his hold on the two of them.
Joker’s cries increase, “Please, I’m so close,” he mumbles desperately, surprising amounts of precum leaking from his dick. “Bats…don’t stop—”
Getting close himself, Bruce pulls his hand away from bruised skin and places it around Joker’s tired hands. He moves their hands together, picking up where Joker left off. Their breathing increases and Joker shuts his eyes tight.
“Fuck—” Joker chokes out harshly as ropes of white cum paint the front of the batsuit. The vibration of his voice against Bruce’s shoulder and his full body convulsions send Bruce over the edge, and his fingernails break skin near Joker’s waist. He shudders and an extended groan falls from his lips as he reaches his own orgasm and slumps into Joker. His hand leaves Joker’s hip and grabs onto the medical bed.
He takes a deep breath and goes to stand up fully, riding out the left over sensations of his orgasm. His mind is back to its overactive self, concerned with all the small details of Joker’s condition, his microexpressions, his speech. The obsession never sleeps, only leaving the forefront of his mind in small moments of escape like this.
As he pulls back, Joker’s body droops forward heavily.
“Are you—”
Joker’s eyes are closed, his features completely relaxed, and his breathing even. He must have passed out due to the overexertion. Not that Bruce is surprised, he usually gets tired after their romps anyway, so it’s only natural that his sickness would exacerbate that.
Bruce grabs Joker by his slender shoulders and lays him back down to the bed, carefully wiping off any body fluids that made their way onto Joker’s bare thighs. Joker often keeps up a thick emotional boundary, especially after they engage in any kind of sexual activity. Aftercare between them is often a pipe dream for Bruce, something that Joker will never entertain.
After taking care of Joker, Bruce walks to the bathroom and cleans himself off as well, avoiding the mirror’s discerning gaze and tucking himself back into his suit. He turns on the faucet and splashes his warm face with cold water, trying to fight back the subtle hint of shame rearing its ugly head in his mind.
When he returns to the medical bay, Joker hasn’t moved and rests peacefully on the cot. Batman sits back down on the hard chair next to the bed and puts his head in his hands.
He’s spent every night of his adult life patrolling the streets of Gotham, beating this narrative of justice into criminals, thugs, and rogues alike—this idea that he’s meant to maintain a balance in his city and protect those who can’t protect themselves—and yet here he is, sleeping with his archnemesis, the man who arguably brings the most pain and suffering to everyone in this city. So many important people in his life have asked him why he hasn’t gone through with it, why hasn’t he killed him yet.
Bruce slowly sits back upright and places a hand softly onto Joker’s sleeping head. He runs his fingers through neon green curls, which causes Joker to stir only slightly.
He tells them that killing is wrong, and that once he kills someone, then he’s no better than the criminals he’s trying to protect against. But he knows deep down that’s not why he doesn’t kill Joker. No, there’s a much more pressing reason: a domineering, ceaseless, idiotic part of himself wants to protect Joker more than anyone else in Gotham.
He folds his arms together and places them on the bed, creating a pillow that he rests his head on. He stares at Joker’s snoring face. This man who kills constantly, seems to do things only for his own amusement, and devotes his entire life to toying with the Batman—is Bruce’s Achilles’ heel, and he knows it will be the death of him.