still alive

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/44315551.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Batman - All Media Types
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU) & Harleen Quinzel, Joker
(DCU) & Selina Kyle
Characters: Joker (DCU), Bruce Wayne, Harleen Quinzel, Pamela Isley, Jonathan
Crane, Selina Kyle, Stephanie Brown
Additional Tags: Joker (DCU) Loves Bruce Wayne, Falling In Love, Romance, Possessive
Behavior, Psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel, Poison Ivy's Pheromones,
Enemies to Friends, Joker (DCU) in the Batcave, Joker (DCU) Has EDS
| Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Slow Burn, Not
Actually Unrequited Love, Joker (DCU) Has BPD | Borderline
Personality Disorder, Selina Kyle is Catwoman, Aromantic Selina Kyle,
Developing Relationship, Bruce Wayne Tries, Sex Pollen, Survivor
Guilt, Stephanie Brown Needs a Hug, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of jaxverse
Collections: fics im dreaming abt
Stats: Published: 2023-01-16 Completed: 2024-09-24 Words: 51,539 Chapters:
14/14
 still alive
by astrodisea

Summary

‘You’re really committing to this whole clown bit, I see.’ Batman’s voice is a threatening rasp
through the gloom.

A thunderbolt of excitement rips down through Joker’s chest. He was hoping tonight would
be the night Batman would catch up to him.

TAGLINE: Joker’s explosive first encounters with Batman have him falling hard and fast.

Notes

work and chapter titles from Still Alive by Demi Lovato (re-titled 10/03/2023, used to be 'you
put my back to the wall' titled from Jet by Citizen)
 sucked out the poison
Chapter Summary

When a factory floor attendant drowns in acid in Gotham’s industrial district, someone
entirely new is resurrected in his stead.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Some girls have a deadname, but what he has is more like a deadlife. It helps that the
chemicals gave him amnesia, rewiring his brain so that his memories only begin in the days
immediately before. They’re not happy ones— lonely microwave dinners and no surviving
family, just him and the empty hours around sleep and work. In that sparse handful of
memories, there’s no colour in his life.

There’s no laughter at all.

He works as a floor attendant in the Ace Chemical Processing Plant, a privately-owned

biochemical factory buried deep in Gotham’s industrial district. It wasn’t an easy job to get.
He’s one of the lucky ones, barely managing to claw through an interview even with his
background in chemistry. He studied it for seven years, after all. He had nothing else worth
pursuing and he’d always had a knack for remembering formulas and equations. But this job
barely manages to make use of what he learned in college, what he put himself tens of
thousands of dollars in debt to obtain.

It’s disgusting. He needed a Master’s degree just to get an interview here, but the work is
barely more than janitorial.

He’s about to clock out for the day when his supervisor whistles for him like a dog from the
factory floor.

‘Hey Jackson, you mind staying back tonight?’

His heart sinks. He does mind, but that doesn’t matter. His opinions rarely do. Because
compared to their social lives, what does his time count for? He has no family to get home to
and no pets to feed. There’s no sweetheart waiting for him on the couch.

‘Sure.’ He tries not to sound pained. ‘What do you need?’

‘Got a spill up on the mezz.’ His boss wipes his hands clean as he climbs the iron stairs,
clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Clean it and close up for the night. We’ll fix the overtime up
tomorrow, yeah?’
Sure, if you don’t forget like all the other times.

But he still makes himself nod, holding in a grimace.

‘You got it.’

‘Thanks, Jackie.’

Then the man leaves, and the factory double doors close, and he’s left behind in the chemical
plant completely by himself the same way he has been for every other minute of his lonely
little life.

It’s funny. In the end, it’s not even because of the spill that he falls. Granted, it doesn’t help—
it means he can’t get his balance back once it’s gone—but the thing that makes him stagger in
the first place? The thing that shocks him into forgetting where he’s standing and how close
he is to the edge of the mezzanine? It’s a bird—ha!—a robin if he had to guess, just a
feathery little thing banging into the window and bouncing back off again. The fright of that
loud bang sends him slamming back against the rails.

And then the rails break apart like a fortune cookie, sending him crashing down hard onto the
metal lid of the vat.

That alone could have been enough to kill him. Laying there in shocked agony, he even
wishes for a moment that it had. His back is broken, has to be. The explosion of pain rending
him in half can’t mean anything else.

Something’s groaning— him, most likely, but the metal underneath him, too. He can’t
breathe. He can’t move anything except for his eyeballs. He flickers them down to try to
assess the damage, which is when he sees how his work uniform has gone all angular from
the sharp points of his protruding ribs.

The punchline of this whole joke? That would be how the next thing to break is the lid over
the vat, too. It gives way all at once, plunging him back-first into the chemicals. The acid
starts searing his skin off and boiling his eyes inside of their sockets. It’s so much
concentrated, obliterating hurt at once that he can’t even think.

But it only takes seconds for the agony to tip over into rapture, because this is a rebirth. It’s a
baptism of neon green, flooding in to replace all of that washed out grey.

It’s getting into his mouth, basting his teeth as he screams underwater. It’s even rushing into
his perforated chest, plugging itself directly into his blood.

It takes a full minute before he manages to get free. He bursts up through the surface of the
sludge, gasping for breath, barely aware that he shouldn’t be able to move at all. A moment
ago, half of the bones in his body were broken. But now there’s not a single tear in his
tingling skin.

It stops him short when he catches his reflection in the surface of Gotham River. He’s the
perfect picture of transformation: skin powder white, hair a bush of jade green. His eyes are
so bright that they glow a little, like there’s acid residue trapped inside his very irises. When
his mouth falls open in wonder, he sees how his teeth have turned as sharp as arrowheads.

Afterwards, the police declare him dead. The leading theory is that the hydrochloric acid in
the formulas must have eaten him right up until there was nothing left to find.

And he supposes it didn’t not look like that. He left a crime scene in his wake in his
desperation to get out. There were handprints burned in acid on the walls of the vat, not to
mention scratch marks all along the metal where he’d fought to claw free.

With all of that evidence, it’s easy for them to conclude that he never made it— that the acid
gobbled him up before he could save himself. And he couldn’t bring himself to return to his
sad little unit in the east end, either, creating just more proof. All of his things were left
untouched and abandoned, like he never came home.

Because he didn’t.

He even goes to his own funeral. He sits in the back pew in sunglasses and a shake-’n-go
wig, trying not to burst out laughing as dozens of co-workers and neighbours all act like they
knew him enough to actually mourn the loss.

But all of that? All of those early memories? They’re just filler. It’s just set dressing for the
main event. Because his life doesn’t really start until he goes back to Ace Chemicals in the
dead of night, intent on burning his birthplace to the ground.

This sorry factory has never looked so beautiful in its life. It’s well on its way to ashes
already. The building’s bricks glow with a red backlight, the glass windows cloudy with
smoke swirling around inside the walls.

Fire and flames pour up through the smokestacks. It throws a red shadow over everything,
flooding Gotham’s skyline with smoke, not that it matters a great deal. This part of the city
reeks of smog, meaning it will take longer for anyone to think to call the cops.

In his world? This isn’t revenge. He’s not doing it out of hate for the building that birthed
him, no. Instead, it’s a thank you. It’s a mercy killing. It’s the only way he can even begin to
repay his debt to this place: by stopping those awful people from making any more atrocities
within these walls.

‘Put your hands where I can see them and I’ll try not to break any bones.’

He whirls around at the voice interrupting his little celebration— and what a voice! That
voice sounds like it’s being dragged over gravel, a low raspy growl. It sends shivers down his
spine, especially when he recognises exactly who it is. He’s seen Batman before on the news
—who hasn’t?—all dark and stormy in his thorny armour and swirling cape.

‘Wow! Batman, here to see little old me?’ An excited laugh bubbles out of him as he holds
out a hand through the smoke. ‘What an honour!’
The eyes of Batman’s costume are a piercing pale blue. He may stay silent, but those electric
eyes never move. They stay focussed exactly as they are.

Right on him.

He can’t believe it. The Batman, the Dark Knight of Gotham, is looking at him. And
suddenly all of his manic attention is shifting to reciprocate that, racing like an avalanche.
There’s no stopping it.

His universe has finally found its centre.

‘I don’t shake hands with arsonists,’ Batman growls.

‘Ha! Hey, what do they call arson in France?’

‘You’re under arrest.’

‘No, that’s not it!’ He can’t help pouting at Batman’s deadpan answer. He’d wanted to make
him smile. ‘They call it crime brulé.’

Batman is unimpressed.

‘Is that what you’re supposed to be, then? Some kind of clown?’

Oh, now there’s an idea. He certainly looks the part, doesn’t he? With the green bursts of his
hair and his eyes screaming against his washed-out white skin, and his lips a constant angry
red because no matter how careful he is, he can’t stop biting them open by accident.

But more yet, it captures what he wants.

To have fun.

To dance.

To make everyone laugh—

—most of all the menacing hero glaring at him unfailingly through the ashes and embers.

‘What’s the plan?’ Batman demands. ‘Is there someone trapped inside?’

He balks, taken aback.

‘Gee, I hope not!’

‘A bomb, then?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. I’m having enough of a blast as it is!’

‘Then why are you doing this?’ Batman’s getting frustrated now, his mouth betraying a
scowl. ‘What’s your point?’
Still no smile.

He feels his own face fall, matching the emotion.

‘Do I have to have one? I’m sorry, Bats. I didn’t realise. But I’ll do better next time!’

It’s a promise. He’s new at this, still finding the ropes, but once he knows the rules he’s all
too happy to play by them.

‘For now, maybe we can just say I’m throwing a little housewarming party? After all, I
needed an excuse to make a new friend.’

Batman growls, starting toward him.

‘You’ll have all the friends you want once you’re in Blackgate—’

Something inside the factory explodes, blasting glass out of the windows like grenade
shrapnel, and he screams with laughter as Batman snarls and comes after him.

The Dark Knight doesn’t seem to want to hit him— at least, not at first. But by the third time
he’s managed to slip out of the hero’s hold, giggling madly as he prances around him in the
smoke, he can tell Batman’s patience with him is waning.

This is fun. Batman’s trying to catch him and he’s not letting himself get caught. He’s making
good use of the gifts the vat gave him—rhythm, elasticity—dancing through the smoke and
chemicals.

It’s like he was made for this.

Then Batman pulls out what looks like a harpoon gun, and a grappling hook comes shrieking
through the air toward him. He barely manages to hurl himself out of its path. If he hadn’t,
the Bat would have reeled him in like a fish.

Even Batman’s cough is a growl.

That gets his attention. Since his little swan dive into this new life, he’s realising that he’s
resistant to chemical fumes. All fumes, really. It makes him feel like a phoenix, something
newborn and mythical.

It makes him fret to hear Batman start hacking in his stead.

‘Careful, Bats!’ he cautions. ‘You really should put on your little gas mask unless you want to
end up looking like me!’

Then the wind catches the smoke, and he realises he’s talking to empty space.

Shit.

He spins in place, scanning through the carpark.

Batman’s given him the slip.

That’s when the Dark Knight comes swooping down from above. A black custom-made gas
mask contorts Batman’s face into something inhuman. He’s so relieved that Batman listened
to his warning that he doesn’t even bother trying to counter the grapple.

The next thing he knows, Batman has him pinned to the hard ground. One padded knee
pushes down hard against the small of his back.

‘You have horrible etiquette,’ he huffs, indignant. The police are arriving in their horde,
sirens beaming red-blue, red-blue through the smoke. ‘Normally boys at least buy me a drink
before they pull out the cuffs.’

Batman shoves him down harder.

‘Enough jokes.’

‘Who’s joking?— Ow! You play so rough, Bats!’

Even with all of this heavy petting, he can feel how Batman’s strength is starting to flag.
Getting some of those fumes into his system before he clapped on his rebreather must have
taken its toll.

He was bluffing earlier. It won’t kill or transform Batman. It shouldn’t do any major damage
to the police officers or firefighters about to swarm the place, either. He’s studied the
chemicals long enough to feel confident making that call. But Batman’s reaction speed
should be nice and dull for the next hour or so, until his immune system finishes flushing out
the toxins.

It’s perfect timing. It makes it all too easy to take advantage of that weakness. He dislocates
his thumbs to get free of the cuffs, then grabs onto the cape and hauls it down over Batman’s
eyes.

By the time the Dark Knight struggles free, there’s a whole car park of distance between
them.

Batman’s eyes are hidden by the shining blue lenses of the cowl. His mouth is hidden by the
mask, too. But even with no part of the Bat’s face left on display, there’s a glare there. He can
feel it even if he can’t see it.

And it makes him weak in the knees.

He rattles the cuffs from afar.

‘Call me sentimental, but I’m keeping these. Something to remember you by, you know?’

Then he cracks his thumbs back into place with a grunt before giving Batman a cheerful
wave.

‘Until next time, Bats!’

 And the police sirens are warbling and the firefighters are mobilising and as he gets away in
all of the confusion, for the first time in his life, he feels alive. His pulse is thumping with
adrenaline and excitement. It’s not the kind of human connection most people would long for,
but he doesn’t care.

It’s been so long since he had something he could share with someone. And he’s never had it
be something so passionate as this. He’s going to have bruises tomorrow, proof of their little
tryst through the smoke and sirens. But so will Batman. And something inside of him is
waking up, twisting around in glee at the thought of it. The knowledge that they’re going to
match.

Chapter End Notes

in this chapter joker’s not known by the name ‘joker’ yet, so at this point he’s in a kind
of nameless state. to him, his birth name is equivalent to a trans person’s deadname—
that’s not him, not any more, if it ever was at all. i know that makes some of the parts in
this chapter a touch clunky because of multiple ‘he’s’ in one scene, but I’ve done my
best to make it legible!!
 drowned out the noise
Chapter Summary

In the wake of the factory explosion, Bruce analyses a new threat.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

After, Bruce can’t let it alone. He sequesters himself in the cave for hours on hours,
rescheduling meetings and performance reviews at the Tower to make time.

He’s leaning in close to the screen, raking over the cowl recording for the third time in a row.
The strain is nearing unbearable. He reaches for his eye drops and even gets as far as tipping
his head back to apply them. That’s when he remembers he emptied the vial out an hour ago.

Bruce rakes a hand down his face, putting the vial back where it was.

Focus, he scolds himself internally. There’s got to be something here you missed.

He reaches for a pen this time, noting down the things he’s been picking out while reviewing
the encounter. He lets it keep playing on-screen. It’s up to the last few minutes now— that is,
the part where Bruce has him cuffed on the ground.

He zooms in on the man’s hands, watching closely as he slips the cuffs. It’s uncanny. One
moment, the pale man is handcuffed just as cleanly as any other perp would be. But then he
starts pulling free. He just keeps going, even past the point where pain would make anyone
else give up.

It turns Bruce’s stomach. It must have felt like his thumbs were going to snap right off. They
practically did when he dislocated them both at the same time. Those out of place joints hang
limply in the casing of his skin even as he blinds Batman with his own cape in slow motion.
And then he skips giddily away through the smoke and embers, crunching both thumbs back
into place without even blinking.

Ambidextrous, is the first thing Bruce writes. He could feel something was off when they
were fighting. Seeing it in a more analytical context like this makes it undeniable. Double
jointed, he jots down right after. Hyperextending, probably HSD. Maybe Marfan?

It would make sense for it to be something in the connective tissue. Looking back, there’s
more and more evidence for it. It’s easy to tell that the man doesn’t have the strength or
practice to go on the offense. He was defence fighting the entire time, mostly evading or
distracting Batman as they tussled.
Conditions like that tend to stack a lot of the time, too. Going by the man’s completely
colourless skin, Bruce would call it a safe guess to say he has something like albinism or
universal vitiligo. The news can’t make up their minds. They call it make-up in one report,
then face paint in the next.

They’re wrong either way. Bruce knows for a fact that the pallor isn’t painted on. There
would have been traces of it on the gauntlets afterwards if it were.

But more to the point, the man wasn’t dressed for a show. He was dressed like he didn’t want
to be seen. He could’ve blended right in if it weren’t for his electric green dyed hair. In his
ripped black clothes and distressed jeans, all he’d need to do is keep his teeth hidden behind
his lips. Then he’d be just like anybody else.

It’s like he’d wanted to avoid the limelight entirely when he’d attacked the factory.

‘So what changed?’ Bruce mutters, tossing his pen back down.

It’s not making any sense. When people don’t want to be caught, they run. They don’t stand
their ground and start a fistfight where they’re woefully outmatched.

But if the man was smart enough to know that he couldn’t beat the Dark Knight in one-to-
one, it stands to reason that he’d be smart enough to wait for the smoke to work its magic.
Maybe he knew he just had to stall long enough for Batman to weaken, and then he’d be able
to get away.

Bruce feels like he’s joining the dots for a moment before it all fissures apart. He’s left
pinching the bridge of his nose from frustration. Because if he knew about the smoke, then
why was he so taken aback once Bruce started to cough? He even nudged Bruce toward the
rebreather in the heat of the moment.

Careful, the man had insisted, gesturing frantically. Unless you want to end up looking like
me.

Bruce clenches his teeth at the memory. Troubling implications aside, that warning still
leaves him with nothing but questions, and one at the very forefront of them all:

Why did he try to help me?

Right on cue, the 24-hour news channel playing at the edge of the cave rolls over to a re-run
of the arson story. It’s not exactly a coincidence. The attack is on everyone’s lips, especially
since footage from bystanders went viral online. Journalists were quick to outpace the police,
tracking down anyone the pale man had interacted with on his way to the factory in order to
interview them for the program.

Bruce has seen it already. Still, it’s a welcome enough distraction from his supercomputer and
the headache manifesting between his ears. He half-heartedly rolls his seat back, reaching for
the volume controls.
They’re up to the part with the gas station attendant, the one who got robbed for half a store’s
worth of accelerant. Green bars line up along the screen as Bruce drags the volume to
something audible.

‘He came in telling jokes,’ the attendant is saying. ‘That’s all. I’m serious. He told me to give
him the gas and then just started spewing his f—in’ comedy routine.’

The editors censor the cursing with a beep, though it’s not hard to parse his meaning.

‘Do you remember any of the jokes?’

It has to be the journalist asking. Her microphone is jutting toward him from out of frame,
but the station attendant just balks at her.

‘Nope,’ he says, popping the p. ‘All I remember is those f—in’ teeth, man. I mean, you gotta
understand. I thought I was going to goddamn die.’

Bruce grunts even as he mutes the feed again. He flicks his attention back to the slow motion
rerun from the cowl.

The man’s teeth are weapons in and of themselves. They’re like razors where they’re lined up
neatly along his jaws, gnashing dangerously whenever he laughs or tells a joke, a permanent
threat to the man’s own tongue. It’s half of why Bruce was holding back.

He knows a bite risk when he sees one.

He grimaces, shutting down the monitor before he pushes out of his chair and starts toward
the elevator. It’s hard to avoid feeling like he hasn’t learned anything. All he has to go on is a
handful of biological quirks, and ones that come with even more questions than Bruce had
before.

How did his teeth get like that? Why didn’t he flinch when he dislocated his thumbs?

Who is he and where did he come from and what does he want?

And what did the factory have to do with any of it?

Ecoterrorism is his first guess, but that can’t be the motive. It’s too much of a contradiction.
The man would have every reason in the world to go after Ace for their pollution, but
detonating the factory with all its toxic waste still inside only made that pollution worse.

It could be revenge, Bruce supposes. It’s hard to overlook how one of Ace’s chemical
engineers died afterhours on-site barely a week beforehand the arson attack. OSHA, the EPA
and even the Federal Government have come down hard on factory management, or else
Bruce would be keeping them under surveillance in case they’re the man’s next targets. As it
stands, half the Ace staff list are already in custody. The other half are filing a class action
lawsuit against their former employers.

But the bricks and mortar of the factory aren’t what killed that worker. And if anything, the
explosion only made it harder to seek justice. It took any lingering physical evidence and
dragged it right into the fires of hell.

So maybe the pale stranger did this for retribution. But it’s not likely. And maybe he did it for
the trees, but that’s even more implausible again.

Or maybe, Bruce thinks coldly, there was no point to it at all.

It’s the most chilling answer possible: that the attack could be meaningless to this man but for
the amusement he found in it.

It’s the answer that haunts Bruce whenever he imagines that moment again, a pale lunatic
laughing freely like all this destruction was just a pastime. Now that he’s had that feeling
once, it won’t be long before he’ll want it again. And again. And again, until he’s just another
psychopath prowling Gotham’s streets.

Just the latest killer painting tragedy onto a clean picture.

Somehow, the most chilling answer loops right back around into the most chilling question.
And Bruce doesn’t like that he’s wondering it, but he can’t afford not to. There are lives on
the line. That simple fact is what makes this the most important question of all, really,
sidelining all the others:

How do I stop him?

He’s thinking about it all the way to his wardrobe, picking out an outfit for the morning’s
meeting. If the pale man’s opening act was an explosion, Bruce doesn’t want to learn what
comes next in the set.

How do I stop him? Bruce wonders, sliding into the jacket of an Oxford blue business suit
before he starts on his tie. He’s going to escalate. They always do. Whether it’s Zsasz or Bane
or any of the other terrorists in Blackgate, they’d all give their eyeteeth to see Batman buried
six feet under.

Because if they ever do, then it’s open season in Gotham. It’s all Bruce can do to put on the
cowl and stem that tide. The moment he’s out of the way, the rogues are going to paint the
streets red between them. They’ll revel in all of the chaos and death, all of the ruined families
and terror wrought in their wake.

There can’t be another murderer in Gotham.

There can’t.

What’s it going to take? Bruce asks himself. How do I stop him?

And to that question at least, he has an answer.

However I have to.

Chapter End Notes

I can't believe I'm saying this but it turns out still alive, STILL isn't finished, more like
STILL a pain in my ass

I had a revelation that what the series really needs is more of THIS. more of the part
where bruce is still HOSTILE and MEAN and seeing Joker as the latest threat,
otherwise we jump straight to him being horny and that's just not right by me no sir. SO
you can expect five new still alive chapters interspersed between the ones we already
have! this one is the first - there are four more new ones to come .....
 ‘cause i made a choice
Chapter Summary

Manic and newly named, Joker meets Batman for the second time.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

He starts his criminal career with a spree of joke shop robberies to gather up supplies, and
that’s all it takes for them to christen him in the press. They start calling him Joker.

Some people are calling it obvious and unimaginative, but personally? He loves it. It fits him
like a tailored suit. It makes him feel at home again in his own skin. It’s staggeringly
addictive how much he wants people to see him, these days— how much he wants his name
to be known. Sometimes when they really want to fearmonger around him in the news, they
even add a The to his name, with the capital letter and all. But for the most part, Joker just
becomes a conversational term. It’s the name he was always supposed to have.

They write things like JOKER STRIKES DIAMOND DISTRICT and CLOWN PRINCE
CONFOUNDS POLICE, and his personal favourite—

WHEN WILL BATMAN CATCH HIM?

He’s obsessed with how they print his name in tandem with Batman’s like that. It drives him
wild that Gotham is loving their rivalry just as much as he does after that first meeting,
spinning the two of them like they’re star-crossed and perfectly matched. Everyone wants to
know which of their opposing styles will come out on top.

Because Batman is so serious and stormy in his all-black get-up, while Joker’s fun and
frivolous in his flashy suits. He has a whole closet of them now in his hideout. He has outfits
and ties and dress shoes, all lovingly heisted from people with far too much money for their
own good.

Joker likes to look good. It’s a part of the show. Yes, he’s holed up in a condemned block of
apartments when the sun comes up. Yes, it’s the kind of place where even gangsters don’t
deign to go. But every night, that part doesn’t matter. The moment Joker steps out of the fire
escape, he’s performing the starring role, picture perfect in his pale skin.

The joke shop is dark and liminal in the nighttime. It’s filled with all kinds of novelty gifts
and costumes, every prop an aspiring Clown Prince could ever dream of. He clipped the
security system on the way in and it’s a Sunday morning, which means he still has hours yet
before anyone will show up for the opening shift.
Robberies make more sense to Joker in the dead of night. It’s not so much because of secrecy.
It’s because at night, there’s less risk of any bystanders getting hurt. He prefers his crimes to
be victimless. It gives the joke a broader appeal. And this way, he has all the time in the
world.

Joker snacks on sour gummies from the candy station as he works, only eating the ones that
are green or purple as he rifles through the shop for supplies.

‘You’re really committing to this whole clown bit, I see.’

Batman’s voice is a threatening rasp through the gloom.

A thunderbolt of excitement rips through Joker’s chest. He was hoping tonight would be the
night Batman would catch up to him. The full moon is making the smog-thickened clouds
above Gotham glow silver, casting that light through the joke shop.

It’s exactly the right scene for their second dance.

‘I knew you would appreciate the effort.’ Joker beams with pride as he spins around, showing
off his suit. ‘Do you like it?’

His shirt and tie are a deep forest green symbolled with hearts and spades. The coat tails of
his pinstriped purple suit bounce behind him, defying gravity. A green rose is pinned to his
lapel.

‘It’s an upgrade,’ Batman grunts. ‘What I don’t like is your recent crime spree. Criminals like
you are turning Gotham into a circus, Joker.’

Joker squeals with delight, clapping his hands.

‘You made a joke!’

Batman’s mouth tightens into a line.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You did! I’m the Clown Prince of Crime and you just said circus!’

‘Puns aren’t jokes.’

‘What’s your problem with puns? You’re not homophonic, are you?’

‘Do you ever shut up?’

Joker giggles. He’d still rather see Batman smile, but there’s no denying the part of him
starting to like how easy it is to get the Dark Knight mad. It makes him so hot under the
collar how quickly all of Batman’s angry attention can hone in on him.

‘Only when strong men make me, darling,’ Joker flirts, and Batman snaps, coming after him
like a vengeful God.
It’s the perfect place for a fight. Joker can pelt Batman with rubber chickens and exploding
golf balls as much as he likes, and he laughs every time the silly chaos makes his hero snarl
with anger.

Batman bullies into his space, not giving Joker the room to pull any more tricks. He’s at a
disadvantage like this. Batman knows it. They barely trade blows before he’s clutching
Joker’s wrists, twisting them around behind his back.

It’s almost, Joker muses dreamily, like a hug.

‘What is it with you and trying to handcuff me?’

Joker headbutts him as hard as he can. Batman gives a low grunt of pain, letting go.

He wishes he could say he felt the pain back. Those feelings are muted, now—another gift
from the vat—but the hard blow to the forehead still has him seeing green behind his eyes as
he staggers back.

He catches himself against the two-dollar bin, both of them breathing hard in the empty shop.

‘Hey, Bats. How many fingers am I holding up?’ Joker picks up a fake rubber hand and
waves it at him. ‘Funny, right?’

‘No.’

There’s no smile on Batman’s face, but there’s a batarang in his hand. The cowl’s eyes
narrow with clear intent. He’s waiting for the right moment.

‘Everyone’s a critic these days,’ Joker sighs. He takes out a deck of cards and sprays them
from hand to hand.

‘Cards?’ Batman sounds dubious. ‘What, you want to play snap?’

Joker’s laugh is more like a scream.

‘More like fifty-two pick-up!’

He sends a card flying through the air like a dagger, and it’s tumbling over and over itself
before it sends the batarang crashing right out of Batman’s gloved hand. They both clatter off
into a dark corner. Batman hisses in pain, shaking out his knuckles where the card knicked
him.

‘Do you like them?’ Joker preens. ‘I customised them with you in mind.’

His cards are sharpened steel. They’re dangerous like razor blades, but that’s not what Joker
means. That part is obvious. The part he did just for Batman is the tiny little bat symbol
engraved on the corners, marking each card as one of theirs.

‘I really like what they’re saying about us in the press, Bats! There was this editorial in the
Gazette today—’
It’s as far as Joker gets before Batman’s grappling gun sends him crashing back through the
shelves.

Toys and novelty gifts rain down around him, the entire section of the store buckling inward
with a great plaster dust cloud. Joker can’t help the breathless groan that leaks out of him.
That one he actually felt a little. His chest is going to be bruised black and purple by the
morning.

Batman comes to his rescue as if he’s not the one who did it to him in the first place, heaving
the shelf to one side.

‘Joker?’ His low growl drips with concern. ‘Say something.’

‘Why,’ Joker coughs. ‘Why do thieves … struggle to understand a good pun?’

‘Don’t—’

‘Because they take things … literally.’

Joker cackles as Batman glares down at him.

‘You’re the worst.’

‘The worst of the worst,’ Joker agrees. ‘But did you have to take it out on the display?’

He sweeps Batman’s leg from under him, springing out of the rubble while the Dark Knight
falls on his back. Joker’s quick to dance out of grappling range. There’s no sense getting up
just to be pulled back down again.

‘I mean, really,’ the clown complains, gesturing around at all of the wreckage. ‘You’ve done
more property damage at this point than I could ever dream of.’

Batman says nothing as he picks himself up. He dusts plaster from his shoulders while Joker
raises his fists, squaring off against him like a boxer.

‘Well?’ Joker demands expectantly. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t get it up!’

‘You’re sick.’

‘Sick of being edged like this, darling,’ Joker counters, blowing a loose lock of hair out of his
eyes. Then the nearest display catches his attention. He grabs one of the novelty baseball
bats, readying a swing. ‘Round two, let’s go!’

Batman rushes him and Joker swings, but the baseball bat is made of plastic. All it does is
squeak like a dog toy when he clocks Batman right over the head with it.

Now that Batman’s got that one big hit out of his system, it’s a smoother dance. They still hit
each other and trade their one-liners, but now it’s like they’re recalibrated. They know what
to expect from each other. They clash and duck and dodge like they’ve been doing it for
years, until Joker can throw a punch and Batman knows to anticipate it, catching him by the
wrist to block.

Joker twists his hand into Batman’s and activates the buzzer on his palm.

The shock has the vigilante locking up, rigid all over. Joker takes advantage of that
distraction to hide. It’s such a rush. The thrill of the fistfight is making his blood sing and his
heart pound.

He ducks down under the counter, covering his grinning mouth with both hands to keep
quiet.

‘You’re new, so I’ll give you a hint—’ and then Batman is right behind him, growling into his
ear— ‘This bat can see in the dark.’

But Joker’s already twisting, laughing like that’s exactly what he wanted.

‘And how’s his sense of smell?’

He pelts Batman right in the face with one of his stink pellets. It nearly makes Joker cry
laughing when the vigilante starts to splutter, trying and failing to spit the taste from out of
his mouth. He’s still twitching from the electric shock, too.

Joker knows he’s not going to get another chance as good as this one.

So he crashes through the fire escape while the Bat is still down from the back-to-back
barrage, dashing his way out into the alley. He runs full-tilt toward the neighbouring building,
leaping and grabbing the highest rung he can reach on the fire escape. It’s not a second too
soon, either. Batman is hot on his heels, trying to haul him back down by the leg. Joker
stamps down right on the cowl.

And then he’s free-running over the rooftops, moving like a ghost. He leaps and rolls and
slides down the shingles, bouncing his way along the parapets to get away.

He was always going to. Batman packs a hell of a punch, but Joker’s flexible. He’s lithe and
quick and has these alleys committed to memory, knowing by now how to make Gotham talk.

He only stops running when he physically can’t make himself go another step. He doubles
over, heaving for breath, thinking about how the left side of his face has gone tight from
where Batman clocked him, thinking about how air never tastes as good as it does after going
toe-to-toe with the Bat.

It’s running through him like electricity. He’s never courted anyone before, but he imagines
this is what it must feel like: lingering inside of him long after the fact, constantly driving
him to further up the ante. He needs to make a declaration. And it has to be something big,
something theirs.

And then he’s got it— the best idea he’s had since he burned down the factory. He knows
exactly what he has to do, because it’s the exact same thing that Batman said he’s already
doing.
 Turn Gotham into a circus.

Chapter End Notes

i’m really enjoying having to google shitty puns every other paragraph
 and drew a hard line
Chapter Summary

There’s a bomb threat at the Parkview subway station and his name is Joker.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Emergency Services are swarming Parkview Station in droves. The riot police and bomb
squad unit are one thing, holding a perimeter and warning the public to keep back over their
megaphones. But then there’s the fire department, too, standing back from the entrance with
their axes, crowbars and other tools. There are even ambulances, albeit with their sirens
switched off. Their blue and red lights flare on a loop, swathing the subway entrances with
spilt sapphires and rubies.

One of the ambulances is open at the back. There’s a young girl sitting there, two paramedics
checking her over while she stares down at the ground. She has a foil blanket wrapped
around her for the shock.

The crowd part for Batman. Civilians and police alike quickly move out of his way as he
stalks past them in full costume, making for the stairs leading down into the underground.
Whispers follow him all the way there: he’s here, that’s Batman, oh my God.

Commissioner Gordon is there waiting for him. He’s chain-smoking by the entrance, but he’s
good enough to stamp out his current cigarette before Batman can get to him.

‘Those things will kill you,’ Bruce growls, the voice modulator twisting his words into
Batman’s harsh rumble. Gordon just grunts.

‘They’ll have to get in line.’

There’s no greeting between them, no room for pleasantries given the situation at hand.

‘Where is he?’

Gordon glances damningly toward the cordoned off entrance.

‘Guess.’

There’s no need. Bruce heard everything he needed to between the police scanners and the
emergency broadcast. All of the trainlines through Parkview have been halted, buckling the
main stretch of the Downtown transit network. Because there’s been a Joker sighting in the
subway tunnels—
And today, all of his puns are explosion themed.

‘Mayor’s not happy, by the way,’ Gordon mutters. ‘She doesn’t think we can rely on you.’

Bruce raises an eyebrow under the cowl.

‘And what do you think?’

‘Me?’ Gordon sniffs. ‘I think that whackjob down there is a helluva lot less likely to blow the
tunnel if we give him what he wants. And what he wants is you.’

Bruce grimaces. It would be easier to ignore if it wasn’t so unsettling to him, too. What
started as a chance encounter is quickly spiralling into an obsession for Gotham’s latest
rogue, Batman held squarely in his sights.

‘He asked for you,’ Gordon adds, reading his mind. ‘Says it’s important.’

‘And the bomb?’ Bruce growls.

Gordon just swears. His fingers twitch tellingly toward the pocket of his tan trench coat.

‘Fuck if I know, pal. It could be right under him. Could be on the train. There might not even
be a bomb in the first place.’

Bruce glances back over his shoulder at the sea of armed police and fire rescue workers. The
two closest officers avert their eyes instantly, looking to the clouds to pretend they weren’t
staring.

‘This is a big turnout for a maybe, Gordon.’

Gordon’s nostrils flare. He puffs his chest, then waivers for a second when Batman doesn’t
react to his bluster. Bruce takes it that the police commissioner isn’t used to interacting with
people he can’t push around.

‘You saw what he did to that factory,’ Gordon snaps. ‘If he does that under Parkview, he’ll
open a sinkhole from here to City Hall.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ Bruce growls.

‘Yeah? That’s what I’m countin’ on, hero.’

That’s more than enough wasted time by Bruce’s count. He walks past Gordon without
another word, and the commissioner doesn’t speak again until Batman is at the stairs.

‘Hey,’ the commissioner barks. Bruce pauses to listen, tipping his head. ‘Don’t make me
regret this.’

Bruce doesn’t answer. He stays quiet, ominous— trademark Batman. But when he’s on the
third step, he still catches the sound of Gordon lighting his next cigarette.
The subway station is silent like a mausoleum down beneath the crowded street. There’s an
echo without any bodies to catch the sound. It’s colder than normal, too. The busy station is
all vacuous and subterranean like the Batcave on a winter night.

Bruce reaches the last of the concrete steps and peers about the area. There are no signs of
life. The information screens are blank where the next services should be. A tabloid magazine
lays on the ground by the ticketing desk, and when the biting breeze from the tunnel finds it,
its pages flap open in the wind.

The stopped train is idling at the platform. All of its doors are still open from the emergency
evacuation. The engine is still humming. But behind the low murmur of the train is
something else, something softer and more melodic.

It’s music, Bruce realises. Echoing down the line from the darkness of the tunnel.

Bruce steps onto the train through the first set of doors, then walks down its length from one
carriage to the next. Aside from the lack of passengers, nothing seems out of place. Litter is
scattered around the aisle—bottles, wrappers—and one seat is ripped down the middle.
Another has an illegible piece of graffiti written diagonally across its backrest. The train is
almost normal.

That’s the eeriest part, somehow.

The very last door of the train is open like all the others, the subway tunnel stretching
ominously on up ahead. The music is louder now that Bruce is closer—Can’t Take my Eyes
Off You by Frankie Valli—and he’s only standing there for a moment before a high-pitched
voice starts quietly singing along.

At long last love has arrived/And I thank God I’m alive …

Bruce clenches his fists before he hops down into the tunnel. He lands between the train rails,
grit and gravel crunching under the soles of his boots. The tunnel starts to bend not far down
the line, then arcs fully another few hundred feet further.

I love you, baby, and if it’s quite alright, I need you baby, to warm the lonely night …

Bruce flips the cowl into low light vision as he starts toward the bend. It overlays the scene
with monochromatic greyscale, static dust filling the places that were previously pitch black.
The music plays on.

Let me love you, baby, let me love you …

There’s a record player sitting in the middle of the track. It’s the kind that comes built into a
stereo console: a tangled mess of wires and cords bridge it into a nearby junction box for
power. It’s an antique, Bruce thinks, probably as old as the song it’s playing.

Now that I’ve found you, stay …

Bruce grimaces. He lifts the needle up and off the track as soon as he gets to it. That’s all he
needed to do, apparently. Joker’s voice comes swimming from the shadows as soon as the
last notes fade.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t like music, Bats?’

It’s difficult to triangulate his position between the pitch darkness and the way his singsong
voice bounces off the damp tunnel walls. Bruce taps a quick code into the gauntlet’s keypad,
running a sonar scan against the tunnel schematic. It’s poetic, he supposes. He’s echolocating
Joker just like any other bat.

‘You’d be breaking my heart,’ Joker continues. ‘Just so you know.’

‘I like music just fine,’ Bruce growls, raising his voice. ‘It’s your choice of venue that leaves
something to be desired.’

‘What? You’re kidding.’ The clown sounds aghast. ‘I thought you’d love this! Somewhere
gloomy and underground. I think there’s even some bats down here.’

Bruce takes the chance to creep further into the tunnel, finding the quiet places among the
gravel as he moves carefully toward Joker’s voice.

‘Who knows?’ Joker wonders aloud, a smile in the words. ‘Maybe they’re distant cousins of
yours.’

Bruce can hear the distant squeaking the clown is referencing, though it’s far more likely to
be rats than bats, this far into the caves. Finally, the sonar scan pings a result: there’s a
maintenance alcove through the left of the fork in the track. It’s just up ahead.

Now Bruce just needs to make sure that Joker stays there.

‘They told me you wanted to talk to me,’ he calls out.

‘Who wouldn’t? You’re fascinating.’

‘I’ll listen,’ Bruce presses on, ignoring that comment. ‘So long as the first thing we talk about
is the bomb.’

He listens closely for Joker’s reaction, but he needn’t have worried. There’s nothing quiet
about the clown’s giddy giggle in answer. It’s so immediate that Bruce has trouble believing
the noise was completely voluntary.

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling.’

The warmth in Joker’s voice makes Bruce’s skin crawl. He’s cheerful, even polite, like he
and Batman are old friends rediscovering one another in a chance meeting, not at all a
terrorist and a vigilante squaring off under thousands of tonnes in rock and stone.

‘She’s a sad little thing, this bomb. And not a fan of yours, by the way.’

The clown adds that part pointedly. There’s something admonishing in his tone. Bruce just
keeps stalking closer, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the prattle.
‘But I guess that’s a good thing,’ Joker muses. ‘I probably wouldn’t have noticed her
otherwise.’

Don’t, Bruce tells himself, because all of his instincts are telling him that this is bait. But he
can’t know that for sure. Either Joker’s just saying nonsense for the sake of it—

Or he’s speaking in code.

And Bruce still hasn’t mapped the new villain’s psychology enough to know which of those
is more likely to be true.

‘Noticed what?’ Bruce growls.

‘Noticed that this bomb you’re so obsessed with was about to go off, of course!’

That last syllable shudders in the train tunnel like a struck gong. A matching shudder
threatens to run through Bruce. He grits his teeth, fortifying himself against it.

‘So what did you do?’ he asks slowly.

‘Would you believe I never laid a finger on her?’ Joker keeps talking before Bruce has a
chance to voice his scepticism. ‘Really, I didn’t. I just happened to be passing by, and—’

Joker cuts himself off. Bruce holds still to listen, watching the clown’s shallow breaths in the
sonar picture.

‘Well,’ the clown sighs. ‘I suppose my reputation took care of the rest.’

If the sonar hadn’t already given him away, that sigh would have been all Bruce needed. He
can see Joker in the sonar properly now, hiding opposite the maintenance hatch. Bruce flicks
from low light vision to night vision to keep a better read on Joker when he’s not talking. The
high contrast green overlay makes the clown’s colours turn pure black and white like
something out of a silent film.

‘I wanted to talk to you about something else, though,’ Joker admits, picking at his nails for a
moment. Then he angles his head to the tunnel. ‘It’s more of a courtesy than anything, really.
I just wanted to let you know before you start worrying about me.’

Let me know what? Bruce wants to scream. He forces himself to stay silent. Silent, and he’s
prowling closer, closer, until he’s almost within arm’s reach.

It surprises the hell out of him when he’s about to get the drop on Joker—

—and suddenly the clown turns to face him, beaming wide.

It halts Bruce in a heartbeat, pinning him where he stands. It’s not possible. Joker has no
mask, no goggles— no night vision. He shouldn’t be able to see anything at all in the dark, let
alone the Dark Knight at the peak of his stealth.

‘What do you call a monkey with a bomb?’ Joker asks brightly, staring right at him.
Bruce gets as far as, ‘Don’t—’

—before Joker howls his punchline.

‘A baboom!’

It spikes Bruce’s attention. He’s scanning Joker for dynamite, a grenade, anything, his body
already moving on instinct to intercede before his mind has properly identified the threat. But
the only dynamite is in the red shade of Joker’s lipstick. And the closest thing to a detonation
is the muffled whump of Joker’s back meeting the tunnel wall.

Joker reacts with his legs, trying to throw them up, but Bruce can see right through him.
Joker wants to use that momentum to backflip free. He could do it, too. It doesn’t matter that
Bruce has his back to the wall or that the alcove gives him no room to manoeuvre. Those
things don’t matter when Joker’s bones might as well be made from rubber. If Bruce’s theory
is right, the clown will slip right out of his grip in half a second.

And that’s just not happening.

Bruce hooks his arm around Joker’s waist and suplexes him in one swift, brutal motion,
sending Joker’s body crashing headfirst into the ground. The impact reverberates through the
tunnel. Joker’s spine bends unnaturally with the force of the slam—

But Bruce isn’t done. He follows up by driving an elbow into Joker’s solar plexus before the
clown can even attempt to recover. It’s merciless, precise, and it crushes the air from Joker’s
lungs in a single strangled gasp, but somehow Bruce can still feel the tension in Joker’s body
even as he presses the strike home. He’s still conscious—still dangerous—so Bruce pushes
off, springing out of range.

Joker coughs. The cold earth has his lithe frame shaking against the train track, chest rising
and falling in sharp bursts.

Suddenly, it’s hard to keep himself from feeling that little bit guilty. Bruce supposes he could
have pulled that one. But it’s difficult to gauge the clown’s limits when he doesn’t telegraph
pain. He didn’t outside the chemical factory when he dislocated his thumbs. It was the same
last time, too. Bruce had hurled the pale man through a wall in that joke shop. It left him
fearing the worst when Joker didn’t spring right back up, then wishing he’d hit him harder
when the clown turned out to be playing possum.

‘Stay,’ Bruce growls, ‘down.’

Joker seems to heed the warning. Those unsettling eyes have barely any whites at all from
how dilated his pupils are in the gloom. There’s just the barest band of neon green at their
furthest edge. It makes him into a ghoul, almost; some black-eyed demon in the dark with
him, smiling at Bruce with the teeth of a predator shark.

‘Gosh,’ Joker sighs dreamily. ‘You’re handsome.’

‘Give yourself up,’ Bruce demands. ‘This is your last chance.’

‘Gorgeous, even.’ Joker pats over his chest, feeling around the front pockets of his coat,
before he draws out a string of red explosives. Bruce’s adrenaline soars. ‘I just wish you’d
lighten up a little!’

Joker shakes the firecrackers meaningfully as he says it which is the only reason Bruce
knows to close his eyes, fast.

It’s the same tactic used in covert warfare all the world over—in flash grenades, stun globes
—instant sources of brilliant white light designed to debilitate the enemy’s vision. The effect
is bad enough when it’s temporary, creating spots in your vision like staring directly at the
sun. But through night vision, amplifying the vulnerability of Bruce’s retinas? At point blank
range, without any time to react?

It would have blinded him for life—not “could have”, would have—because there’s no
margin for error in an attack like that. It would have been game over. Joker could have ended
all of this right then and there.

So why did he warn me it was coming?

Bruce has stars in his eyes from the flash, even when he’d squeezed them shut. Joker seizes
the opportunity while Bruce’s vision is still blurry, hurling something right at Batman’s face.
The handful of muddy gravel Joker scooped up from the tunnel floor hits home.

It’s maddening. Whatever vision Bruce was winning back from the flashbang is lost in an
instant. He snarls in frustration, shaking off what he can, but the mud leaves streaks on the
cowl lenses. Bruce wipes at them ineffectually with his cape. It’s no good. He’s going to be
fighting half-blind until he gets a second to clean them properly.

Joker is giggling from somewhere in the darkness. Bruce spins instinctively, trying to locate
him, hurling a batarang like a shuriken. It sings through the air in a wide arc before it clatters
uselessly against the tunnel wall.

Then Joker’s voice slithers into his ear, whispering from over his shoulder.

‘Over heeere.’

Bruce doesn’t think, just reacts, swirling and throwing a punch like a sledgehammer toward
the source of the sound. And for a moment, he’s darkly satisfied when he feels his hit
connect. But then the pain comes cascading like a tidal wave, lancing from his knuckles right
up to his collarbones, and Bruce realises in frustration that he just punched the tunnel wall.

‘Ooh, ouch.’

Joker sounds sympathetic, but that impression is lost altogether when he bursts out laughing.
Bruce grits his teeth. He fights to rein in the storm happening behind his eyes.

Focus, he demands of himself. What did you just learn?

That I’m not fucking fast enough—

No, think. Think. He keeps using the same tactics. What are they?

Joker likes it when I can’t see him. Bright lights, dirt, the cowl— if he can find a way to blind
me, he’ll take it.

Okay, good. What else?

I don’t fucking know. He lures me closer by pretending he’s hurt.

Why?

Because he knows I don’t want him dead.

But he doesn’t want you dead, either. That’s why he warned you about the smoke, about the
firecrackers. You can use that.

Suddenly, Bruce knows exactly what to do. There’s a plan unfolding in his mind with so
much clarity that it’s like he planned it months in advance.

Use Joker’s tactics against him.

So Bruce doesn’t follow Joker. He moves back to the wall instead, leaning on it hard. The
ache radiating through his wrist makes it easy for him to let out a pained groan. He lets
himself slide down to the ground, fumbling performatively with his utility belt with his left
hand.

It works like magic. Joker’s laughter cuts to silence all at once.

‘Darling?’

Bruce doesn’t answer him. He knows that he’s not going to be able to hide the syringe from
Joker, so he doesn’t try, taking it between his teeth as soon as it’s free from the utility belt. He
keeps the ruse going from there by entering the wrong release code. The gauntlet chirps an
alarm in answer. He ignores it, fumbling the sequence a second time.

‘Bats, talk to me.’

Joker’s sharper now, agitated, which means Bruce’s ploy is working. He doubles down.

‘Can’t,’ Bruce rasps around the syringe. ‘Can’t … see.’

Joker’s beside him in an instant, sprawling down by his side.

‘Let me,’ he demands. ‘I’ll help you. What do you need?’

Bruce lulls his head forward. Joker’s so close now, he’s almost got him. All he has to do is
stick the landing.

‘The code, it’s … 37 … 268.’

Joker repeats it under his breath, taking over for him on the keypad, but while he’s looking at
the gauntlet Bruce is letting the syringe tumble from his lips, catching it in his left hand
without a sound. He thumbs the cap from the needle, flicks the syringe in case there are any
air bubbles—

Then stabs the syringe into Joker’s thigh.

Joker doesn’t seem to notice, at first. He doesn’t flinch at the sharp sting from the needle
piercing through his skin. He doesn’t bat an eye when Bruce depresses the plunger, either.
He’s focussed entirely on the gauntlet, trying and failing to input the code Bruce made up on
the spot.

Bruce catches the exact moment Joker picks up on his changed body language. It’s
impossible to miss from this close, especially because Joker starts mirroring it back to him,
falling into silence and a confused frown. Then he follows Bruce’s gaze.

And then his acid green eyes land on the needle currently sticking out of his own thigh.

Maybe Joker thought it was insulin or anti-seizure medication. Maybe he just thought it was
pain relief and that he’d somehow broken Batman’s arm. What’s actually in the syringe is
none of those things. It’s a benzodiazepine cocktail, the same mix paramedics use in the
Emergency Department to control aggressive patients threatening the staff. The main
compounds are haloperidol and lorazepam for duration of effect, plus ketamine for rapid
action. By rights, Joker should be drowsy in the next minute, then out cold within five.

Joker’s attention moves slowly from the needle back to Batman. Bruce goes tense. He’s
expecting anger. Betrayal, even. He’s expecting Joker to pull a razor-sharp playing card from
his sleeve and then dive for his throat with it. It takes him aback completely when Joker just
looks at him with soft eyes, voice turning tender.

‘You’re okay?’

It comes out vulnerable, almost like a child asking for reassurance, and Bruce inclines his
head before he can stop himself. Joker sighs with relief. His eyes screw closed, and they’re
brighter when they open again, even as he shoots Batman a chastising look. But that doesn’t
make any sense. His eyes should be clouding from the sedative. Instead, they’re clearer—less
panicked—more himself.

‘You shouldn’t scare me like that, baby,’ Joker warns, picking himself up from the ground.
‘Not when my emotions can be so explosive.’

Bruce mirrors him, drawing himself back up to full height.

‘You should stay low,’ Bruce advises. Joker cocks his head to one side.

‘And why’s that?’

‘So that you don’t hit your head when you fall.’
Joker’s features brighten with understanding. Then he snorts out a laugh. His grin takes on a
knowing glint.

‘Ha.’

Joker feels around the back of his pinstriped pants before his pale fingers find the needle
there. He plucks it free, then brings it to his face to examine it. It’s completely empty. He got
the full dose.

‘These,’ Joker mutters, ‘don’t work on me, I’m afraid.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Bruce growls, but Joker just brushes him off.

It’s a bluff, Bruce tells himself. It has to be, because that’s impossible. Nobody can walk
away from that amount of sedatives— not even Bruce himself, let alone Joker, with a
fraction of his body weight and muscle mass. But Joker doesn’t look like he’s bluffing when
he discards the needle just like that, unbothered, letting it fall to the tracks before giving
Bruce a serious look.

‘You wanna knock my lights out?’ he teases. ‘You’ll need to do it the old-fashioned way.’

‘Gladly,’ Bruce growls.

The Clown Prince of Crime smiles in answer. It’s a warm smile, and sweet.

And then he springs.

Joker lashes out with a wild kick and Bruce catches it, twisting the clown’s leg sharply,
sending him crashing back down to the ground. Joker rolls with the fall like a stuntman. It’s
an awkward landing but Joker laughs from the ground all the same.

There’s a distant rumble beneath them, vibrating through the tracks. Bruce doesn’t get a
chance to properly process it because Joker’s already scrambling back to his feet. That smile
is still stretched across Joker’s ruby red mouth even as the clown lunges at him.

Bruce sidesteps the attack, grabbing Joker by the collar and slamming him into a nearby
pillar. The force rattles through Joker’s body—it’s enough to snap his head backward from
the impact—but Joker’s smile never falls. It’s infuriating, spreading wider and wider again
like he’s enjoying every second of the beating.

The ground beneath them is shaking now, rumbling hard like an earthquake. Then the train
horn blows and—

Bruce’s focus sharpens.

Damn it, fuck. They must have managed to sneak engineers and bomb squad down to assess
the train while Batman was keeping Joker busy.

There’s a moment where they just look at each other. Bruce can tell what’s about to happen
even though it shouldn’t be able to happen. But the sedative didn’t work; he believes Joker
about that now. If anything, it’s given the villain a new rush of energy. He can feel it in the
tension between them— can see it in Joker’s feral grin.

‘Don’t,’ Bruce snarls. ‘You—’

That’s as far as he gets before Joker bursts to life. The Clown Prince of Crime bolts for the
train with all of that manic energy, inhumanly fast, and Bruce takes off after him with his
boots pounding the concrete. And he closes the gap between himself and the rear of the train
fast, but Joker was always going to be faster. The clown reaches the open door just as the
engines are gaining momentum, leaping and rolling through the door with a great, screaming
laugh.

Damn it, Bruce is screaming inside, no, not again, and he pushes himself harder, his muscles
burning. The train is picking up speed by the second, ready to thunder back towards Victoria
Station. But he can’t let Joker win, he can’t let him get away again, so Bruce makes the jump
even though he knows he won’t make it, barely managing to catch hold of the metal handrail
near the open rear door. His forearms scream as he locks his grip tight. It leaves most of his
body dangling from the back of the train.

The wind lashes against him. It’s worse by the moment, his legs swinging out over the tracks
below. He’d have fallen if it wasn’t for the barbs on the gauntlets. As it is, they’re stabbed
through and between the holes in the mesh lattice of the platform. Every muscle from Bruce’s
pecs upward is tense with the effort of not losing any territory to the moving train. And
somehow, even with the roaring wheels threatening to drown every other sound— somehow,
Bruce still manages to hear Joker’s interested hum.

Joker doesn’t offer to help, for his part. He just brushes gravel from his coattails as Bruce
struggles, then settles down and crosses his legs politely to watch the show.

‘Question for you, Batsy,’ he says pointedly. ‘Are you familiar with the trolley problem?’

Bruce uses the barbs like mountaineering pitons to haul his way up. It leaves him too
occupied to even consider answering Joker, which is apparently all the answer the clown
needs.

‘So it goes like this,’ Joker says, settling in for the long haul. ‘You’re on a trolley car and
you’re coming up to a fork in the track. Now, you have a lever. And if you pull it, the train
will divert to the other side of the fork. Except—’

It’s the clown’s own giggles that interrupt his explanation. He covers his mouth with one icy
white hand until he’s composed again.

‘Except, on the other side of the fork … there’s someone tied to the rails.’

There’s a jolt in the track. The train bounces, and Bruce loses what little progress he’d made
just like that. A bead of sweat crawls down his brow.

‘Good thing you’re not going that way, huh,’ Joker continues. ‘Only, here’s the thing. The
track you are on— well, there are five people tied to that one. And they’re all trussed up like
a Christmas ham.’

Bruce glances at Joker, still fighting for purchase on the metal. It’s just long enough for him
to catch the excited glimmer in those acid green eyes.

‘So here’s the choice, darling. Do you do nothing and the train hits five people? Or do you—
you—make the active, conscious decision to pull the lever and hit one person, so that five
people will live?’

Shut up, Bruce is screaming inside, shut up shut up shut up. He heaves his way up, managing
to drag himself a few inches further from the rushing ground below. It’s a bad angle, bad
situation—fuck, bad everything—and it makes the muscles in his neck scream with strain,
collarbones feeling like they’re about to snap. Joker nods sympathetically.

‘It’s a hard one, isn’t it?’

The clown’s sympathetic expression melts away. All it leaves behind is excitement. The
clown’s lips are parted with how hard he’s breathing.

‘That’s okay, Bats,’ Joker promises. ‘Because that’s not the question I want you to answer. I
just want you to answer this one instead.’

He hippity-hops closer like a crow would, practically dancing in the shuddering subway
lights. It makes his smile come to Bruce in flashes— red, then nothing, then red.

‘If you could,’ Joker says. ‘Wouldn’t you just stop the train?’

‘That’s not an option,’ Bruce rasps before he can stop himself. ‘That’s the whole point.’

Joker just hums.

‘Well, let’s pretend for a moment that it is possible. Let’s entertain the notion that the
imaginary train on its imaginary track might have a perfectly convenient emergency braking
system, all in working order and ready to go.’

The clown watches him expectantly, all too eager to nag him when Bruce doesn’t indulge
him with a response.

‘It’s a simple question,’ Joker insists. ‘If you had the ability to stop that train, just like that—
and nobody gets hurt, by the way. Everybody gets to go home safe and sound.’

The train roars along the track, tun-kachunk-katun-kachunk, and the wind has Bruce by the
throat. The force is becoming insurmountable. It’s no longer a question of strength, but a
question of how long before the barbs finish rending through the metal lattice, and still
Joker’s talking, still Joker’s demanding his attention.

‘If you could do that one little thing in your power to stop that train,’ Joker asks. ‘Would
you?’

‘Of course I would,’ Bruce snaps.

Joker blinks, surprised.

‘Even if a lot of people were mad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even if half the city were late to work?’

‘Yes.’

It’s almost funny how that answer seems to catch Joker off-guard. The villain blinks again,
seemingly stunned. Then his smile grows three sizes in one moment, pure Cheshire delight in
purple pinstripes.

‘Well, then.’ Joker’s sharp teeth worry his bottom lip, threatening to break skin. He looks
delighted. ‘I really don’t see the problem, Bats! We’re on exactly the same page.’

That’s dubious. Bruce can feel himself recoiling from the notion that he could have anything
at all in common with the manic lunatic lording over him. Joker just snickers.

‘Golly, the trust issues on you.’ The way Joker’s biting his lip turns lecherous. His eyes
flicker down Bruce’s torso approvingly, appreciatively. ‘I don’t give up easily, darling. But be
patient. I’m not sure how long it will be until next time.’

‘Enough games!’ Bruce shouts, his voice modulator condensing the sound to pure thunder.
‘Is there someone else down here?’

Joker taps his chin, pretending to think about it.

‘Not anymore, no,’ the clown answers slowly. ‘The last I heard, she’s with the paramedics
now.’

Bruce’s heart misses a beat. It’s too busy crashing down into his stomach. The girl in the
blanket. He saw her in the ambulance when he first arrived, but he didn’t stop to check on
her. He was too focussed on finding Joker— on stopping Joker.

‘What did you do to her?’ Bruce demands. Joker just clucks his tongue and gives him a
baleful look.

‘I just told you, silly. I did exactly the same thing you would.’

Joker walks toward him then, moving like he’s in slow motion. The short heels of his boots
tap, tap against the carriage floor until he’s right in front of Bruce. Joker crouches down, the
coattails of his jacket pooling on the metal as he hugs his knees. He’s still smiling. This
whole time, Bruce doesn’t think Joker has really stopped smiling once.

‘I stopped the train,’ Joker says, like it’s all he needs to say, like those four words should
explain everything and more, and then—

SNAP SNAP CRACK

The barbs burst through the metal, severing the connection keeping him on the final carriage,
and just like that Bruce is falling. The momentum from the moving train throws him clear
from the carriage. His stomach drops with that weightless feeling, Joker and the train already
rushing out of reach—

Bruce flares the rigging in the cape. That one move alters the trajectory entirely, giving him
the ability to control the descent. He twists in midair, rolling his hips and shoulders so that
he’s facing the tracks.

It’s not the most artful of landings, but then, it was never going to be. Bruce crashes down
onto the tracks, rolling, catching the worst of the damage with his cape. It hurts like hell, but
nothing’s broken. He’s still in one piece.

Bruce catches his breath like that, down on the tracks. He’s further down the tunnel again.
The last-minute glide combined with the sheer force of the moving train hurled him right
back to where he and Joker had been fighting. He takes a moment, processing everything that
just happened. Then he picks himself up. He snatches something from the gravel as he goes,
slipping it into his utility belt—

And starts stalking back toward the station down the trainline.

Bruce is storming up to the ambulance when one of the paramedics tries to stop him. She’s
older than the other paramedic, visibly more experienced than the twenty-something
currently filing paperwork inside the patient bay. Her uniform is partially hidden under a
bright pink visibility vest, matching her pink medical gloves. Her black hair is wrapped into a
high scrunched bun.

‘Batman, sir,’ she says, glancing quickly over her shoulder. ‘Now is not a good time.’

‘Is this supposed to be some kind of life lesson?’

She looks like Tinkerbell would as a child. There’s no way she’s older than 14, not a chance
in hell. A messy blonde ponytail keeps her hair off her shoulders, save for the bangs reaching
down to her eyebrows. The purple hoodie she’s wearing under the shock blanket swallows
her tiny frame. There’s writing down the sleeves—GOTHAM U—maybe a hand-me-down
from a parent or older sibling. With the hood up, she looks like she’s trying to hide.

‘What happened down there?’ Bruce growls. What did Joker do to you? What didn’t I stop
Joker from doing?

Batman’s warning snarl can make criminals cower, but not her. She visibly straightens her
posture. It makes the shock blanket slip from her shoulders, pooling at her back.
‘Nothing! That’s just it. Nothing happened. The train didn’t run, and I didn’t jump, and
nothing,’ the girl snaps, her volume rising, ‘happened.’

The girl’s voice itself is high with youth and just that little bit whiny. It’s the attitude there
that stops Bruce in his tracks, though. She’s agitated, that much is obvious, glaring at him
through puffy eyes. She’s lashing out at whoever she can for a sense of control.

‘Steph, please,’ her mother begs. ‘He’s just trying to help.’

‘I don’t care.’ Stephanie’s scowl shifts for a moment from Batman to her own mother. ‘And
stop saying my name like that!’

Then she turns her attention back to Batman all at once.

‘Look at me, huh? I’m still alive. I’m all in one piece.’ She’s shouting the words more than
anything, loud enough to make the lingering riot police withdraw from the area. ‘The day
was already saved long before you got here.’

The despair is catching up to her. She’s still screaming, but there’s a wobble in the words
now. It matches the wobbling tears starting to spill out from her eyes.

‘Batman,’ the paramedic says again, gentler now. ‘Come on.’

Bruce lets her lead him around the corner of the ambulance. It’s the right choice: no sooner is
he gone than Stephanie starts to properly cry. Her mother goes to her immediately, saying
here, baby, I’m here. Stephanie doesn’t push her away this time. She just keeps crying,
ragged and loud, so much embarrassment and self-loathing in the sound.

The paramedic brings him to the front of the ambulance, well out of earshot from Stephanie
and her mother. The nearby police scatter without needing to be told. It’s starting to rain
again.

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She’s alright. Joker never went near her.’

That’s as far as the paramedic’s reassurance goes. She wets her own lips, searching for the
right words.

‘What you’re seeing is a mental health crisis,’ the paramedic explains carefully. ‘GCPD
found her when they evacuated the station. Steph didn’t want to leave the platform. She was
waiting for the train, the one she’d planned to …’

It doesn’t sound like anything to him, at first. The implication is lost on him—planned to
what—before it hits him like an airstrike. His head snaps to the back of the ambulance. Jesus,
he thinks. She’s just a kid.

No wonder the despair in her eyes looked so familiar. Bruce has been there firsthand. It’s the
look he saw in the mirror every day when he was 16, back when grief had been ready to take
him. His eyes would have stayed that way if it hadn’t been for Alfred’s intervention, then
closed forever. But Stephanie’s so young—younger than he was—young enough that in any
just world, this shouldn't be able to happen. The thought of it puts his inside in a freezer.

The paramedic sniffles, using her exposed wrist to dab the side of her eye. Bruce wonders if
it’s hitting close to home for her, too. Maybe she has a daughter or a granddaughter or a
niece. Then again, maybe she has none of those things. Bruce doesn’t, and the horror of what
she just said to him is enough to yank his stomach right into his throat.

‘Why?’

He doesn’t mean to ask it. It escapes him without permission, the voice modulator making it
into a growl even though he said it more like a plea. And he doesn’t think she’s going to
answer him at first, with the way she hangs her head. But then she reaches into her bright
pink visibility vest.

‘Her mom rushed here as soon as she saw these.’

What she hands him is a printout from a social media account, wet at the edges from the rain.
It shows a chain of posts dated to today. The timestamp on them isn’t that long before all of
this started.

girlbat | minor | batbros dni

@batanti

| my trains coming so ill make this quick. basically, im DONE. ive tried
| everything for you people at this point. ive reported countless times
| and mods dgaf. ive tried blocking but you just make new accs and even
| stalk me on priv. ive tried begging, LITERALLY fckng begging n pleading
| for the abuse to stop— (1/3)
|
| — and nothing ever works, nothing i say or do is ever going to be good
| enough for you. every day i wake up to an inbox full of strangers saying
| im worthless and should kms. I cant take it any more. so youre abt to get
| your fucking wish— (2/3)
|
| — thats right, fuck you and goodbye assholes (3/3)

Christ. It makes him feel sick. He can already imagine what the responses would have been
like, even without them being featured on the page. The trolls and cyberbullies would have
called it melodramatic suicide bait. They wouldn’t have believed her.

She’s a sad little thing, this bomb, Bruce remembers Joker saying. And not a fan of yours, by
the way. But I guess that’s a good thing. I probably wouldn’t have noticed her otherwise.

‘I’d better get back to her,’ the paramedic admits, prising the printout from his gauntlet.
Bruce grunts an acknowledgement, letting the page go. There’s a storm raging between his
ears.
‘Batman?’ The paramedic hesitates, nervous to speak to him on a level. ‘I’m not exactly the
commissioner, I know. But I think we’re okay here.’

It’s a fair assessment. More than that, it’s the same conclusion Bruce had arrived at himself.
Commissioner Gordon is directing the GCPD to withdraw, van doors slamming closed as the
riot teams pack up shop. They all know it: Joker’s long gone by now, and whatever threat
Gordon thought he’d posed is gone with him.

‘Thank you for looking after her,’ Bruce rumbles.

‘Sure.’ The paramedic beams at him. ‘Happy to.’

She circles back to the side of the ambulance, stepping up into the patient bay.

‘Hey, I bet Joker’s pissed. The station’s still in one piece. If anything, he actually stopped a
tragedy tonight.’ The woman chuckles at her own words or maybe just the ridiculousness of
her situation, shaking her head as she slides the door shut. ‘Go figure, huh?’

Go figure.

Bruce is repeating a similar sentiment in his own head the whole way back to his car. It’s
caught in his mind like a fork in the garbage disposal.

Joker hadn’t been trying to hurt anybody.

What the Clown Prince of Crime had wanted was the exact opposite. He’d seen what
Stephanie had been about to do and he’d intervened. He’d stopped that train in a way only
Joker could, wielding chaos and other people’s assumptions as his weapons, screaming jokes
and dressed to the nines.

Joker started the save. Now it’s up to Bruce to finish it. He’s already brainstorming what he
can do to work the systemic issue—he can invest funding into mental health support
organisations, particularly in schools—not to mention how he can reach out to Stephanie’s
family in particular. Money doesn’t solve everything, until it does. He can take care of
whatever therapy bills they need. He’ll look into their economic profile, too; see if he can
offer anyone in the household a position at the Tower.

As for the social media site— it shouldn't be too hard for Wayne Enterprises to acquire that,
really. The first thing Bruce will do with it is reverse the changes put in by the current CEO,
restoring the original name and branding. Then he’ll hand it over to the university. There are
experts there in digital humanities, contemporary anthropology and cyber forensics. Any and
all of them would jump at the opportunity to start mending the rifts in the website’s
algorithm, finally addressing the predatory ways it radicalises users and spread
misinformation.

Bruce sighs hard through his nose. He’s confident enough in the Batmobile’s tinted windows
to remove the cowl as soon as he’s inside the car. He’s been in costume for hours at this
point. The proof of that is in his hair, curling up into waves. It doesn’t make much difference
when he runs a hand through it to smooth it back out.
He reaches into his utility belt, cautiously removing the used syringe he retrieved from the
tunnel. It’s marked with the Bat signal at the tip of the plunger, but unlike all the others in
Batman’s belt, the metal is marked from use. The stain of Joker’s blood is almost like rust at
the very tip of the needle.

‘Analysis,’ Bruce instructs. He flips open the centre console and slides the syringe into the
waiting sample tube. ‘Blood type. Then CRP, folate. Whatever you can tell me, I want to
know.’

The console thrums to life, carrying out the task in record time.

‘Scan underway,’ the computer drones, then: ‘Scan complete. Result: indeterminate.’

Bruce falters.

‘Elaborate. Indeterminate how?’

‘Processing: provided blood sample cannot be classified due to anomalous chemical

presence in the material. Recommendation: refer sample to analysis annex at base.’

Bruce leans back in his seat, frowning. The recommendation makes sense even if the finding
doesn’t. If he wants meaningful analysis, he’ll need to run the sample again through his
supercomputer back at the cave. The Batmobile console just doesn’t have enough grunt to get
the job done.

‘Is it human DNA?’ Bruce presses. ‘At least tell me that.’

There’s a long pause from the computer.

‘Recommendation,’ it says again. ‘Refer sample to analysis annex at base.’

It’s all Bruce can manage not to roll his eyes.

‘Is there an echo in here?’

‘Estimation: unlikely. Commencing sonar scan of Batmobile acoustics—’

‘No, cancel,’ he interrupts quickly. ‘I was being sarcastic.’

‘So was computer. Ha. Ha.’

Fuck’s sake. Bruce makes a mental note to adjust the computer’s settings. He mutes the
virtual assistant with a tightness in his temples. That’s more than enough misguided attempts
at humour for one day.

It’s like being back at square one all over again. The lack of evidence from the console leaves
him grasping at straws, wondering what the hell Joker even is. Species-wise: whether Joker is
something beyond human, animal or mutant like Superman or Killer Croc. Then again,
maybe he’s human but with advanced capabilities— more like Aquaman or the Flash.
 But truth be told, Joker’s biology is far further down on Bruce’s list of priorities than Joker’s
intent.

It’s the part that leaves him reeling. He had been so sure he needed to defeat Joker. He’d gone
down into the station expecting life or death, thinking it was do or die. Shit, Bruce had been
so busy trying to disarm the threat, it never even crossed his mind that Joker could have been
working with him, not against him— that Joker could be an ally.

Can I trust him?

It’s hope, there’s no other word for it; pure, lonely hope, the inner child in Bruce wishing so
desperately for a connection. The voice of all his training and self-discipline snarls to life to
drown it out.

Of course you fucking can’t. He’s a criminal.

But so am I, Bruce counters himself. So is every vigilante.

It’s not the same, it’s all just a game to him. Bruce’s inner critic sneers and growls at him in
equal measure like it has a voice modulator of its own. Are you really stupid enough to take
the bait?

Bruce bounces his leg— drums his fingers on the wheel. Then he puts the cowl back on
before he fires the engines. There’s no need to wear it when the blacked-out Batmobile
windows are keeping his identity protected. In a way, that almost makes it feel like a choice.
There’s no escaping the facts, though, not even from behind Batman’s bulletproof blue
lenses:

Joker just did something no other Gotham rogue has ever done. He saved someone’s life.
And suddenly, Bruce has no idea what to do with him. He still wants to see Joker again. He
wants that maybe more than anything. The only thing that’s changing is the reason why.

Chapter End Notes

sports fans, I'm very proud of this one!!

i know the non-chronological nature of jaxverse is pretty polarising, but i swear that this
is the last "missing chapter" from still alive (at least, as far as i know). to explain myself
a little: it wasn't sitting right to me that we didn't get to see enough of bruce *before* he
trusts joker, *before* he starts pining for him. so the point of these couple newer
chapters i've added in is to basically slow him down a bit and show some of that journey.
they're never exactly enemies in this verse, really, but this is sort of like the "enemies"
part of their "enemies to friends to lovers" journey

LET'S SEE WHAT ELSE. i'm going to try and stay in these first couple fics for a bit -
i've been chipping away at the next chapter of lightning too. it's slow going because i
work a full-time job now so i'm mostly just writing on the train to work in the mornings
hahah

i mean it though, i'm genuinely so proud of this chapter. i meant for chapter 4 (train
chapter) and chapter 8 (mall chapter) to be "brothers", in a way - the structure is very
similar & they're both in creepy liminal settings. and i just LOVE writing bruce. LOVE
LOVE LOVE him

thank you so much for reading, even though it's been a while between drinks! I love you
lots!

lmk your thoughts in the comments PRETTY PLEASE

 let the fire catch
Chapter Summary

Joker pays a visit to Wayne Tower, where everything changes.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It’s Joker’s first master prank, and it’s a good one.

It’s a really, really good one.

Getting his hands on all of the drones wasn’t the problem. It was programming each of them
to seek out specific coordinates, then sewing enough Big Top tarps together to make one big
enough for such a tall task. It took a shocking amount of coordinating and preparation to
make it happen, then longer again because he had to be certain Batman wouldn’t find out
about his plan.

But it was worth every second, because now he’s on top of Wayne Tower—the highest
skyscraper in all of Gotham, let alone Midtown—where he’s about to put on the show of a
lifetime.

The excitement is bubbling up in him, urging him along.

Everything is ready to go.

‘Showtime,’ Joker sings, and flips the switch.

The whole procession tumbles together. Drones buzz to life and launch, slowly crawling their
way through the sky to their destinations, draping the entire boulevard in a Big Top tent.

All of the electric billboards around Wayne Tower start rolling with strobe lights, but it
doesn’t stop there. The P.A. systems of every building in a one-mile radius all start spewing
the same playlist, locked on repeat. It’s filled with carnival beats—Entry of the Gladiators,
Barnum and Bailey’s—pure circus from end to end. He even threw in the Pink Panther theme
because he felt like it fit the right mood.

It doesn’t take very long at all before the police try to light the Bat signal, not realising Joker
got there first with a tin of green paint. So when the beacon fires up into the sky, it’s not
Batman’s symbol they’re painting onto the clouds.

It’s a great big clown face.

Joker laughs like seeing it has broken his brain. He whoops, kicking his legs with delight up
on the rooftop. He’s on top of the world, a ringleader in the centre of the stage.

‘I knew it,’ Batman snarls when he finally finds him. ‘I knew you had to be planning
something.’

Joker’s heart somersaults to see him. Even if it’s just an illusion from the circus lights, he’s
never seen so much colour on the Batsuit. They’re swathing all over him, painting roving
spots on the intimidating leather and swirling cape. It’s the pale blue of the cowl’s eyelets that
are the same as always, though. They’re narrowed by anger, tracking only Joker.

‘Bats, you came!’

‘Get up,’ Batman grunts. ‘Fight me.’

Joker loves how his mind goes there before anywhere else, how badly he wants to make them
both breathless and sore. But the lights are so perfect. There’s a magic spell in this moment
that Joker doesn’t think he’ll ever get to cast again, now that Batman knows what to watch
out for.

‘Can’t it wait?’ Joker pouts. ‘I worked so hard on this one. At least let me enjoy it a little.’

Batman doesn’t acknowledge the request at first. He just looms over Joker, freezing him out
with a closed off posture. Joker’s about to pack it in when the vigilante seems to have a
change of heart.

‘Five minutes,’ Batman grants. ‘If you turn off the music.’

Joker nods excitedly.

‘You’ve got yourself a deal, darling!’

Joker unlocks his phone to cancel the hack. He was starting to get sick of The Greatest
Showman instrumentals anyway. It’s suddenly so peaceful without the music thrumming its
way up through the skyscraper walls.

It’s a surprise when Batman sits down next to him on the edge of the roof, but a welcome
one. The world goes silent but for the distant sound of cars and the rush of the high-altitude
breeze. It flaps the fabric of the Big Top. It even catches some of Joker’s hair, whipping the
green around his eyes.

Joker gives a deep sigh.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

Batman’s answering grunt is almost an agreement.

It’s never been like this before. They’ve never just been together, sharing the same space
without things turning violent. It makes Joker feel possessive over this moment already. He
couldn’t bear to lose it like all the others. If he could wish for one thing, it would be that: to
burn this memory right into the core of him so that no amnesia could ever take it from him.
He’d treasure it like a promise, keep it close to his heart always.

‘How long did this even take you?’ Batman growls.

‘When did we have that fight in the joke shop?’ Joker asks in answer. ‘I got the idea from
you, you know.’

Batman looks across at him.

‘That was three weeks ago.’'

‘You’re joking.’

‘Do I ever?’

Joker looks down into his lap, frowning. He hadn’t meant for time to melt by like that. It
leaves him feeling embarrassed with himself. This was supposed to be a grand gesture for his
hero. When did it become a distraction from him instead?

‘I guess I got tunnel vision on this one.’

‘I knew you were up to something.’ Batman sounds annoyed again, but it’s lacking the heat
Joker’s grown used to. ‘You haven’t done anything all week. You don’t just disappear like
this.’

It melts Joker’s worries instantly. His heart soars as he nudges the vigilante with one
shoulder, not even trying to hide his giddy smile.

‘You missed me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Batman scoffs.

‘You did.’

Joker can hardly stand it. The thought of his Bat overthinking their game like that is so sweet.
He was waiting nervously for Joker to make the next move, all so he could flirt back without
looking clingy.

‘Bats,’ Joker grins, head over heels. ‘You really know how to make a girl feel special.’

It’s not long after that when a timer goes off somewhere on Batman’s person. Joker is oddly
touched. He gave him the full five minutes he promised, right down to the second.

‘Time’s up,’ Batman growls, getting up and moving to the centre of the roof.

‘I suppose it would be cruel of me to leave you hanging after I’ve had mine.’ Joker picks
himself up too, cracking his knuckles. ‘Do you want to start or should I?’

‘You’ve had enough favours tonight.’

Batman stalks forward and Joker ducks under his punch, backpedalling.

He glances over his shoulder to get a sense of how far away they are from the edge. It’s
cramped— risky. That danger adds a sharper heat than what he’s used to. Joker’s breathing
heavily already, his body coming alive all at once.

‘Scared of heights?’ Batman growls.

He swings again but this time when Joker dodges, Batman’s ready. He drives a knee into the
clown’s side— Joker catches him by the thigh and yanks him off balance, getting in a strike
of his own to the Bat’s jawline before he jumps back out of range.

‘Nope,’ Joker laughs. ‘Scared of clowns?’

Batman pats his face, checking for blood. But there isn’t any. There are no razor-sharp cards
between Joker’s fingers, the same way there haven’t been any batarangs in his own.

‘Starting to be,’ Batman rumbles.

Then there’s a rush of air. It’s an unwelcome interruption: this wasn’t part of the plan. Joker
makes sense of what’s happening first, glimpsing part of the Big Top coming unfurled from
behind Batman.

It whips down toward them like a parachute.

Necessity kicks him into top gear. He has to shoot it down before it can sweep one of them
over the edge, and his cards are in his hand in an instant to make that happen. He hurls razor
after razor, perforating through the tent.

But it takes trigger-happy Batman a second too long to realise what Joker’s doing.

His batarang catches Joker right in the shoulder.

The long-distance punch knocks Joker off-balance. He stumbles, the wind clawing into him
before he can right himself, and—

Hasn’t he been here before?

He’s going to fall, there’s no avoiding it. Except this time, there’s no acid bath waiting to
catch him.

And Wayne Tower is so much taller than that slippery iron mezzanine.

If that little fall in the factory was enough to break his back, then what will this do to him?
There will be nothing left—barely a smear on the pavement—and the circus lights are so
bright where they’re spilling through the clouds above him. Joker falls until he’s horizontal,
as if he’s about to walk down the walls instead of hurtle past them. Déjà vu is making his
head spin.
Or maybe that’s just because Batman is grabbing his hand so tight, it’s like he’s trying to
break Joker’s fingers.

Joker smiles up at him.

‘I knew you liked me.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Then why are you holding my hand?’

‘So that you don’t fall to your death.’

The wind whips around them in a muted wail. Joker tsks between his teeth. He wishes he
could feel the leather of the gauntlet through his purple satin gloves.

And suddenly, he has the best idea in the world.

Joker starts wriggling his fingers to ease his way back out of the glove.

‘Oh no,’ he gasps. ‘Would you look at that?’

The lenses of the cowl whir, analysing him in double-time. Joker wonders just how much
they reveal. Batman must know everything there is to know about his body by now, each one
of Joker’s enthusiastic reactions giving more and more away.

Joker keeps twisting his fingers, gravity helping him along.

‘What are you doing?’ Batman demands.

‘My glove, Batman,’ Joker shrieks, playing pantomime. ‘It’s slipping!’

‘Stop it!’ he snaps. ‘You’re going to fall.’

‘For you, darling, how could I not?’

‘Joker, don’t!’

Batman yanks him up at the last possible instant before the glove slips. He wraps a hand
around him to clutch his back before Joker can tumble back down, making him feel like he’s
being dipped in a tango.

Batman’s holding him. He’s cradling all of his weight like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

It’s not fear giving Joker the butterflies.

Batman’s voice comes out in a furious rumble.

‘If you try to pull me off of this roof with you—’

‘I would never,’ Joker snarls.

He hates the sudden intrusive thought that bursts into his head: Batman falling over the edge
of Wayne Tower and it being all his fault. Joker twists a hand into the cape to help anchor
them better. Immediately, he feels a new pressure at the small of his back as Batman’s hold
tightens in reply.

That reassurance is all it takes to soothe the monster inside of him back to sleep. Joker’s still
holding on tighter than ever, but inside, he’s perfectly calm.

‘Are you going to let me pull you up?’ Batman demands.

Joker just flutters his eyelashes.

‘Why don’t you try it and find out?’

Batman doesn’t hesitate. He hauls Joker the rest of the way up, catching him and holding him
close, crushing him against his chest. And if Joker suddenly feels dizzy, it’s got nothing to do
with the height.

It’s because their mouths are suddenly so close together.

‘Why?’ Batman sounds pained. ‘You tried to jump.’

Joker doesn’t fight Batman’s hold at all. There’s nowhere he’d rather be than exactly here,
with their breaths comingling together and fogging from the altitude. Their heartbeats are
pressed right up against each other.

‘No, I didn’t,’ Joker says with a smile. ‘I knew you were going to catch me.’

Batman’s hands tighten like he wants to shake him.

‘But what if I wasn’t fast enough?’

There’s something so helpless in that plea.

And the lights are low and colourful all around them, the wind rushing in his ears as Joker
leans in close. His voice is barely more than a whisper as he lets Batman in on a secret.

‘I trust you with my life.’

Batman talks with police commissioner Gordon for a long time while Joker waits in the
squad car, kicking his legs. They’ve handcuffed him properly this time. It’s the two-set kind
that band both the wrists and the elbows, making it impossible to leapfrog out of them or
dislocate his thumbs.
Every now and again, nervous police officers glance in Joker’s direction. He pokes his tongue
out past his razor sharp teeth and wonders what they’re saying about him.

Finally, Batman opens his door, gesturing for him to get out.

‘You’re coming with me,’ he growls.

‘Ooh, a road trip?’

Joker bounces on the balls of his feet as he follows Batman to his sleek black ride.

‘Where to, Bats?’

Batman opens the passenger door and jerks his head, an order without any words. Joker’s
happy to obey. He’s even good enough to keep his teeth to himself as Batman fastens his
seatbelt, looking around the Batmobile in possessive wonder.

It’s like a space shuttle in here, part lunar launcher and part Lamborghini. There are so many
switches and buttons and screens. The steering wheel looks like a prop from an escape room,
covered in keyholes and mechanisms. Joker stares and stares, trying to imagine what they all
could be for. He wants to memorise every detail. He wants to lock the knowledge up inside
him where not even time could melt it away.

Batman takes his place in the driver’s seat. The Batmobile doors chirp as they lock closed.

‘GCPD don’t know what to do with you.’

Ha! Joker’s positively tickled at the idea of that, and even more so if that means he ends up in
Batman’s custody. There’s a star exploding in his chest as his hero guns the engine.

But that feeling of pure joy quickly fades when the car ride becomes drawn out and awkward.

Batman says nothing for the most part, not as they pull away from Wayne Tower— not even
as the Batmobile speeds along the straight shot from Gate Boulevard toward East River. They
take the turnoff up onto Clinton Bridge and Joker watches through the window as the water
rushes far below.

They’ve driven right down into the dense forest of one of Gotham’s islets before Batman
finally cuts the engine, not far from the end of the road. They’ve gone up an incline to the
peak of the island. It’s craggy and rocky and backed up against the cliffs, the air turned salty
by the sea-spray. It’s not until Joker reads the Gothic sign looming over the entrance that he
realises where they are:

Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

‘Bats?’ Joker’s starting to feel nervous. ‘This is, uh— just a stop on the way, right?’

Batman just keeps extending the silence. It’s so quiet that it starts to make the skin at the back
of Joker’s neck prickle. He starts casting around for a joke to break the tension when finally,
the Dark Knight speaks.
‘I thought you were trying to make me watch you die.’

That’s when Joker knows just how badly he crossed a line.

‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ Batman continues. ‘Why would you stop that girl’s suicide,
just to show me your own instead?’

Guilt cascades through Joker, settling in the pits of his guts. He’s not used to this feeling.
He’s more familiar with emptiness— the bone-deep ache of being alone. Compared to that,
this is raw. It’s prickling him up and down like he stepped into an iron maiden of regret.

‘I’m sorry, Bats.’ Joker swallows. ‘I went too far tonight.’

Batman’s lack of comment is agreement enough.

‘You need a psych eval, Joker. And you’re too dangerous to hand over to a normal hospital.’

Joker just nods.

‘Okay.’

It sounds lame even to him, but what else can he say? He royally screwed up.

‘This—’ Batman gestures between them. ‘It’s a game to you, isn’t it? That’s how you see it?’

‘Yes,’ Joker answers immediately, the word an easy hiss. Obsession peels back a layer of his
guilt. ‘The best game there is. The only one I wanna play.’

‘Then I’m adding a rule.’

It stops Joker short. That’s not what he was expecting to hear, but the surprise only lasts an
instant before anticipation wells up in him. He feels like they’re about to tip over into
something brand new.

‘I’m listening.’

‘No deaths, Joker.’

Batman sounds so worn out. It’s the kind of exhaustion that has nothing to do with strength or
physical endurance.

‘Not mine,’ he adds. ‘Not even yours.’

It feels right as soon as he says it. Joker hadn’t realised it until he heard it verbalised out loud,
but even the option of collateral damage has been making him antsy. It softens him to know
that Batman can feel it, too.

They’ve been going at each other hard and fast without any understanding of the limits. Their
game needs rules, for Gotham’s sake and for their own.

They can still play. They just have to be more careful.

 ‘All you had to do was ask, darling.’ Joker thinks it over. ‘I’ll take your little psych eval, so
long as you understand something.’

‘What?’

‘That I’m not insane. I’m not suicidal. I’m reckless, oh yes. And a freak, if you believe the
news. But never that. And Bats?’ Joker doesn’t even blink. This is a promise, and he needs
Batman to know just how much those mean to him. ‘It will never happen again.’

Batman gives a slow nod. And suddenly Joker feels possessive even over this conversation,
this new rule, because it’s theirs.

Their first boundary.

‘Then I guess this is my stop.’ Joker twists to one side, craning his elbow so he can reach the
door handle. Batman unlocks it with another chirp. ‘Thanks for the lift, love. And try not to
miss me too much this time, okay? I promise I’ll see you again soon.’

The corner of Batman’s mouth quirks upward. It’s a micro-expression at best, barely even
there. Anyone else would miss it.

But Joker isn’t anyone else.

‘Looking forward to it,’ Batman growls.

Joker laughs, the weight lifting from his chest. He’s still giggling even when the whitecoats
come to lead him away. He gnashes his teeth at them, then howls all the harder at how that
makes them jump backward in fright. And Joker’s so sure that he catches a chuckle, right
before the passenger’s side door snaps shut. Laughing along with him.

Sharing the joke.

Chapter End Notes

harley next chapter!

 until i’m back to ash
Chapter Summary

After his stunt at Wayne Tower, Joker is admitted into Arkham by the enigmatic Dr.
Jonathan Crane.

Chapter Notes

yes yes i know, it's this shit again, noah giving you an unexpected new chapter in the
middle of a finished fic

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Joker doesn’t even really notice Arkham Asylum until the Batmobile taillights are
disappearing back down the islet’s spiralling road. That’s when the rest of the world fades
back in for him, when he can finally perceive anything besides his darling and their new rule.
It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given him.

No deaths.

Arkham is the only structure on the island besides the boat houses and the guard stations. It’s
right at the peak of the islet up a long woodland drive from Clinton Bridge to the cliffs on
high.

Gotham earns its name in places like this: with age-old angel statues framing the gravel drive,
a brick façade and chimneystacks either side of the antiquated lighthouse. The asylum is
connected to it like a keeper’s house. Its steeply pitched gable roof extends into the
lighthouse’s sides, windows stretching right to the roofline.

The lighthouse cores through the centre of the asylum. The main tower is some seventy feet
tall with an octagonal foundation and brick exterior. It rises up to a cast iron parapet, an open
gallery around the glass lantern chamber, topped by a multi-sided pyramid roof.

Where the outside is a love letter in red brick to the Gothic Revival, the inside of the hospital
is modern all the way through. It’s clinical— sterile. Its history only peeps through here and
there in the building’s bones, like the pointed arches and the foyer’s vaulted ceiling. Joker
catches a quick glimpse of the stairwells through an arch paralleling the main entrance, stairs
that go on to wrap up and around the lighthouse above.
Before he can take in much else, he’s being bullied forward by the orderlies. They’re intent
on driving him toward the nurse’s station to the right.

‘Careful with this one,’ the orderly gripes, shoving Joker into a seat. A tired looking lead
nurse looks up from her work. ‘He bites.’

‘Come on,’ Joker whines. ‘I barely got you!’

‘I’m bleeding, you freak.’

The lead nurse crosses around the station.

‘Show me,’ she says.

Joker cranes his neck to look, too, beginning to worry that he actually did hurt the orderly.
He’s relieved when the nurse clucks her tongue and gives the man a dubious look.

‘I’ve seen worse papercuts,’ she tells him, pushing him away as she heads to her supply
cabinet. ‘I’ll spray you with wound wash, but that’s all.’ She looks back at the man, raising
one eyebrow. ‘Or do you want a bandaid for that? How about a lollipop?’

Joker snickers.

He takes the chance to look around while she treats the man’s cut. The nurse’s station is a
rectangular enclave draped with sterility. Its shelves are stocked with medical supplies just
barely visible under the low fluorescent lights. Most of them are switched off, leaving the
area dimly lit in the nighttime. It smells like essential oils, but there’s an antiseptic aroma
beneath it that they don’t manage to cover up.

The nurses have a sense of humour, too. Joker is delighted when he reads the message on the
desk’s little placard.

You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps!

‘Brad,’ the lead nurse says. One of the younger nurses jumps to attention. ‘Can you admit
him?’

The younger nurse, Brad, is wearing a lab coat over his light blue scrubs. His posture is
slightly hunched. His eyes dart to the clock on the wall before they come back to Joker. The
lead nurse looks up when he doesn’t answer, glaring at him.

Brad licks his lips before he tries to answer.

‘Ma’am, he’s …’

‘A patient,’ the lead nurse insists. ‘That’s all.’

It’s not just Brad, Joker realises. It’s all of them. The nurses and the interns, even the
orderlies watching on from the archways.
They’re all on edge because of him.

Joker chews his lip, thinking it over. There has to be something he can do to help. Maybe
they’ve seen the news and they’re worried about what happened at Wayne Tower? He decides
on a joke to help ease the tension.

‘My therapist says I have multiple personalities,’ Joker says brightly. ‘Now he charges me a
group rate!’

The resulting silence is palpable, almost stifling. Two of the nurses exchange a nervous
glance.

Huh, Joker thinks. Tough crowd.

He’s glad when the lead nurse lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose.

‘Fine,’ she mutters. ‘I’ll do it.’

The younger nurse visibly relaxes.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

Joker tries to act like his feelings aren’t hurt. It still stings, though. People are always on edge
around these days, everyone but Batman. Then again, he upset Bats so badly tonight that it
landed him in a mental hospital. It hurts his heart to think about that.

‘Go get the night doctor,’ the lead nurse tells the intern instead. ‘I think it’s Crane tonight.
He’ll need to sign off on the admission.’

Then she crosses to Joker as the intern scurries away, straightening her crisp uniform and
adjusting the stethoscope around her neck.

‘Okay, Joker,’ she begins, sitting down opposite him. ‘I’m Lillian.’

‘Hi Lillian.’

‘Hi.’ She fixes him with a severe look. ‘Are you going to be difficult for me tonight?’

There’s something austere about her. She’s well-postured, immediately straightening her
spine when she sits. All the same, Joker gathers this place is aging her. Her pale hair is
greying at the roots even where it’s pulled back in a severe bun. There are crow’s feet about
her eyes.

Joker pouts at the question.

‘I only bit him because he elbowed me in the ribs.’

‘I see.’ She looks him over like she’s scanning for a lie. If she is, there isn’t one to find. ‘So if
I keep my elbows to myself?’
‘Then we’ll be the best of friends!’

‘You’re not here to make friends,’ she replies, not unkindly. ‘You’re here for an evaluation.’

Joker leans in a little, wiggling his eyebrows.

‘Whatever makes you think I can’t do both?’

That gets her. Lillian cracks the beginnings of a smile. It’s the first one he’s seen since he
came through the door.

She leads Joker across the foyer to the rooms opposite the nurse’s station, taking a second to
shoo away the orderlies hanging around to gawk.

‘First thing’s first. Let’s get you into the shower and out of those clothes.’

She shows him to a bathroom, taking down a plastic tub from one of the cabinets as they go.

BELONGINGS, it says along the side.

‘Anything that came through the door with you will be waiting in the lockers upstairs for
your release. Your phone goes into a lockbox with the guards, so don’t even think about
cracking open lockers to go look for it. Are we clear?’

‘Mm, very.’

Joker starts turning out his pockets. It takes a while— there are a lot of them. He pulls out
four decks of joker cards, three different hand buzzers, a squirting flower, a handful of
marbles, and then a bundle of rubber chickens bound together with rubber bands.

Lillian’s expression shifts from dubious to impressed the more props he produces. There are
handfuls of confetti and even a whoopee cushion, not to mention his finger puppets and
collection of lock picks. Not everything on his person is for a bit, though. There are
hardboiled candies, sour gummies, and a half-finished pack of apple-and-grape flavoured
gum, too.

Lillian’s face darkens when Joker even pulls out a sheet of bubblegum flavoured condoms.

Once he’s finally emptied out all of his belongings, she lays out a set of regulation clothes
and asks him to leave his own clothes in a pile. She’s almost all the way to the door with his
things when Joker realises what he’s just handed over.

‘Wait!’

She stops in the doorway, looking back at him. Joker flaps a hand toward the tub.

‘Can I keep my lipstick, please?’

It sounds so stupid. He would be blushing if he could, and even more when Lillian just
shakes her head.
‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Oh,’ Joker says. His heart is sinking a mile a minute.

When he takes his shower, it will wash away the bombshell red covering the worst of his
mouth scars. He’s uncomfortable without it. It’s the one thing that never fails to make him
self-conscious, because then there won’t be anything to distract people from his teeth.

If the staff are giving him a wide berth now, then he can only imagine how much more scared
of him they’ll be with his mouth on full display.

Lillian softens when she sees his sadness.

‘Ask me again in a couple days,’ she amends. ‘If you behave yourself, I’ll see what I can do.’

Joker swallows and nods, ever-polite, though inside he’s wondering if he’s not made a
mistake agreeing to be here after all. Deep down, he’s wondering if maybe when he hands
over his lipstick, he’s handing over something else, too— something that might not be able to
be handed back.

Somehow, the clingy orange jumpsuit still manages to stay shapeless. It does nothing for
Joker’s figure. He has a nice ass, but you wouldn’t know it— not in this horrible thing. And
to make things worse, it’s irritatingly coarse. He tries to pluck it away from his skin to no
avail. For as long as he’s in here, there’s no getting away from it.

Joker cringes away from his reflection on his way out of the bathroom. He even raises a hand
to blot it from view. He hates how the vivid orange hue looks against his skin. He hates how
it makes his mouth seem even more raw than it already did.

‘Mr. Joker,’ the man says in lieu of a greeting, waiting for him in the hallway. ‘My name is
Dr. Jonathan Crane.’

‘Nice to meet you, doc.’

‘Likewise. If you would come with me, please.’

Dr. Crane takes him through the hallways. He moves with measured, deliberate steps.

They like their hygiene here. Joker can feel it in the filtered air; can hear it in the hum of the
air vents. The cold corridors are silent at night. Their glossy white panelling makes a blurry
reflection of their figures, just like the polished linoleum underfoot.

It’s dark here, too. The recessed LEDs in the ceiling are all switched off to help the patients
sleep. Joker’s acid eyes would still let him see into the dark recesses lining the hallway if he
tried, but he doesn’t let himself look. He’s determined to behave. Even when he’s sure he
hears a whisper, he keeps his gaze fixed forward.

He’s doing well until they reach an open room. One of the doors is open, letting low purple
light spill through into the hall. Joker can’t stop himself from looking inside.

There’s a woman sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring vacantly down into her lap. She’s
wearing a thin white hospital gown the same colour as Joker’s skin. The circles beneath her
eyes are as black as her limp long hair. Then she looks up, and all at once, the two of them
lock eyes.

‘Crow,’ she says, pointing right at Joker with one gaunt finger. ‘Crow.’

Dr. Crane grimaces.

‘Back to bed, please, Abigail.’

Even when the doctor closes the door between them and locks it from the outside, Joker’s
still seeing that finger behind his eyes. It was thin and pale as bone, the nail long like a talon
or claw.

Dr. Crane stops at a room not much further along the hallway. While he’s unlocking it, Joker
notices a surveillance camera strategically positioned to catch the corridor. He quickly picks
out another two more, their red dots blinking intermittently, silent sentinels monitoring each
inch of the building.

‘You’ll be shown around the hospital properly in the morning, of course,’ the doctor explains,
holding the door open for him. ‘For now, let’s just focus on getting you admitted.’

So much of the hospital seems to have been made modern inside, but there’s something off
about this room. It’s like it missed the memo. It’s musty and old with walls marked by
blotchy stains. Each smear is black and abstract like a Rorschach test.

Joker has to get creative not to lie.

‘You have an interesting office.’

‘My office is upstairs,’ Dr. Crane replies coolly. ‘This is a simple interview room.’

Joker gets a good look at him now that they’re stationary. Dr. Crane is average height and
slender, almost skeletal, with a shock of tousled chestnut hair framing his piercing hazel eyes.
His thin lips are curled in a crooked smile. That’s when Joker catches the odour. He sniffs on
instinct to try to identify it, face twisting up with repulsion when he does.

‘What is that smell?’

‘Pardon?’ Dr. Crane queries, giving him a curious look.

‘What, you don’t smell that?’

As if he can’t. God, it’s like burning rubber and hot metal, a stagnant, olfactory car crash.
Everything about it sets Joker on edge. He feels ready to run or throw a punch, an adrenal
response.

‘Ah,’ Dr. Crane mutters, nodding. ‘I wonder if it’s not the lingering incense you’re noticing.
My apologies, Mr. Joker. I’m a big advocate for aromatherapy and haven’t had a chance to
change clothes between appointments.’

Joker wrinkles his nose, both for the smell and for the title. He wants to tell the doctor to cut
it out. It’s just Joker. But he’s supposed to be behaving himself, so he holds his tongue.

‘Enough about me,’ the doctor says. ‘I’d like to learn more about yourself.’

Joker just chuckles.

‘You and me both, doc.’

He’s relieved not to remember his previous life, but that’s not to say there isn’t something
strange about it, too. Sometimes Joker will realise out of nowhere that he knows how to do
something. Like sewing. He’s proficient with a needle and thread, but he has no idea why, or
how, or to what end.

Dr. Crane hums an interested note.

‘Would you say you’re out of touch with yourself?’

Ha. There’s a joke to be made in there. Then again, it’s probably not his to make. Joker’s skin
burns too much from the acid for that to be much of an option to him anymore. He can never
find that sweet spot between pressure and gentle. The result is that his own touch hurts more
than it helps.

‘I’d say,’ Joker muses, ‘that I’m in a love-hate relationship with myself.’

It’s vague on purpose, because there’s no way that he’s about to lay all of his cards on the
table for this man. Dr. Crane tilts his head forward all the same.

‘Is that why you tried to jump?’

‘That’s not what happened.’ Joker snaps it before he can think not to. The uneasy feeling
inside him thrashes and snarls. It’s none of his business. That’s between Joker and his Bat.
‘I’m not like that.’

‘There’s no shame in it.’

‘I’m not ashamed,’ Joker bites out. ‘I’m being misunderstood.’

‘Then help me to understand.’ Dr. Crane’s voice is calm and intellectually superior. He puts a
hand on the side of Joker’s arm, nodding encouragingly. ‘Who are you? What do you want to
change about yourself?’
Joker can’t stand the doctor’s touch. It stings, a physical pain. He shrugs that hand off of him.

‘I’m just me, doc!’ Joker pushes fake brightness into his voice, reaching for his role to get
through the stress. ‘The Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime! Gotham’s latest and greatest.’

‘Every villain has his origin story,’ Dr. Crane counters. ‘Are you hiding from yours?’

Joker’s dragging in a breath to answer when he falters. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears
he sees something move. But then he snaps his head toward it—

And finds nothing but shadow.

Joker swallows.

When did his heart start beating so fast? It’s drumming away in him like he’s been running,
his legs burning to match.

He can’t get away from that smell. It’s like there’s rubber burning right under his nose, rubber
and metal and blood. He can feel the little green hairs at the back of his neck all standing on
end.

Is someone standing behind him?

‘I’m told you don’t remember your past,’ Dr. Crane says.

His past? That’s right. No, he doesn’t remember. It’s better that way. He doesn’t want to
remember the last time that he felt this scared. He doesn’t want to remember the factory’s
metal double doors or how they were rusting at the edges, the way the metal lattice creaked
underfoot, its railings ready to break, Oh God the walkway.

Joker can almost taste the acid, how it hissed and spat and corroded all those chunks of metal
spearing down into the vat alongside him. There’s something behind him, has to be. There’s
someone standing right behind him. A shadow shifts in the corner of his eye.

And Dr. Crane asks, ‘What do you think that means?’

Joker wouldn’t know because Joker can’t think. There’s too much pain to think, and he’s
paralysed all the way through, can’t move back broken skull cracked apart at the back. That’s
what happened when he fell, and— that’s right, he fell. Didn’t he? In the factory. And he’s
still— still—

The acid is sizzling behind him.

That’s the thing behind him.

Joker whimpers. He’s going to die like this. He can hear the lid on the vat groaning—it’s
about to give—he looks down and watches in horror as the orange jumpsuit darkens to a navy
work uniform, tenting out around broken ribs.

Something is going to kill him. Something is going to make sure he dies like this.
The shadows shift again and Joker squeezes his eyes shut but he can still hear Crane— Dr.
Crane, his sepulchral voice still calm and careful.

‘Let’s explore that together,’ he insists.

But—

Wait.

No deaths.

They said no deaths.

Joker’s eyes fly back open. Outraged, he looks to the shadows.

His acid sends them scattering.

It can’t kill him. It’s not allowed to.

That’s against the rules.

He drags down a deep breath, thinking hard. It’s a panic attack. The hallucinations are new,
sure. But it’s still just a panic attack. It’s like handcuffs; he knows how to get out of those.
He’s done it before.

He can do it again.

Joker runs a thumb over the armrests of his chair. He wiggles his toes in the Arkham issue
socks they gave him. It’s already starting to fade. He just needs to ride it through.

Here, he tells himself. I’m here, right here.

I’m right where Batman asked me to be.

‘There’s no sense dwelling in the past, doc,’ Joker answers, only speaking once the feeling
has finished fading. ‘The present is much more interesting.’

Dr. Crane drums his fingers on his clipboard. His face contorts, eyes narrowing. They’re
beginning to lose that analytical intrigue. He looks at Joker like he’s prepared to humour him,
but only for so long.

‘An unusual statement,’ the man comments, ‘given our current setting.’

‘Au contraire! There’s nowhere I would rather be.’

Because this is where Batman wants Joker to be. This is what Batman asked Joker to do. He
wants a professional’s sign-off that Joker will keep his promise— and not for no reason,
either. They made a rule. They set a boundary tonight.

So fuck the panic attack. And fuck Dr. Crane too, while we’re at it. As far as Joker’s
concerned?
This is the best night of his life.

Nothing in this world can put a dampener on that.

But where Joker’s becoming more confident with each moment, Dr. Crane’s body language is
closing down instead. His lips press tight together and tip down at the corners. Joker blinks,
trying to puzzle out whether that’s anger or sadness or something in-between.

He doesn’t get the chance to figure it out. The doctor snaps shut the folder on the table all at
once, kicking up out of his chair.

‘I’ll sign off on your admission, Mr. Joker,’ Dr. Crane says curtly. ‘Consider your wish
granted. A nurse will be with you shortly.’

‘Oh, sure!’

Joker’s confusion only deepens as he watches Dr. Crane gather his things. He just had a panic
attack in front of the man. The doctor should be delving into that, shouldn’t he? Instead, he’s
leaving altogether.

‘Um, it was lovely meeting you!’

Crane, for his part, doesn’t reply. The door snaps closed behind the flutter of his lab coat with
a quick automated drone.

Whatever Crane gained from that brief half-finished conversation is beyond Joker. He can’t
help feeling apprehensive. There’s something magnetic about Dr. Jonathan Crane, but Joker
can already tell there’s something unpredictable there, too.

It’s a few minutes before Lillian comes to collect him. She even knocks before opening the
door.

‘How did you go?’ she asks.

‘Uh.’ Joker frowns, honestly unsure. ‘Good, I think.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Lillian holds the door for him, gesturing him through. ‘I’m going to show
you through to your room now, then I’ll treat some of those scratches and scrapes. You
should have time for a nice nap before breakfast.’

That’s a relief. Joker feels exhausted all of a sudden, stifling a yawn as he climbs out of his
chair.

He follows her without a word of protest through the sterile halls, his head full of bats, one
hand rubbing absentmindedly at the sore place on the side of his arm.

But first thing in the morning, they put him back in handcuffs.

Crane asked for them, Lillian tells him when he gives her a betrayed look. You bit an orderly.
It’s for our safety.
 All the while, Joker is just wishing he still had that lipstick tube.

Chapter End Notes

spooky 0.o what do you make of this, dear reader?

 if anybody asks
Chapter Summary

Joker meets a friend.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It’s honestly not as bad in Arkham as Joker expected it to be. They took his lipstick away
which is depressing, and he has to wear a jumpsuit which is too garish an orange for him to
be able to pull it off with his complexion. But the nurses feed him something healthy every
five hours. They make sure he’s drinking enough water, too, and they even patch up all the
little injuries he’s been collecting while running parkour over the rooftops. All in all, it could
be a lot worse.

He’s even managed to teach the orderlies some manners. They tried to browbeat him at first,
keeping a rough grip on his cuffed hands, their elbows all too eager to keep him moving
along. But by the third time he licked his lips and thanked them huskily for the rough
treatment, they must have realised pain just doesn’t work on him. Now they keep a much
more polite distance.

Like now, when they’re throwing the handcuffs back on to take him out of his cell.

It’s the third time today that they’re moving him to an interview room. They’re all the same:
small washed-out white rooms with one bolted down table and a plastic chair on either side.
Their tiled walls are familiar to him now, just like the blue stripe making a guideline down
the main hallway.

The whitecoats undo his chains then cuff him back down through the centre of the table,
keeping him on a chain like a dangerous dog.

‘See you in an hour, boys!’ Joker singsongs, and one of them mutters something about him
being a freak on the way out.

It’s a psychiatric hospital— at least, that’s the wording the doctors use instead of asylum, as if
that’s not what’s written over the front entrance. Maybe that’s why the interview rooms are
more like interrogation cells than anything else. The wall to the hallway has a laminated glass
window, ensuring as little privacy as possible. Still, Joker’s learning to appreciate the little
attempts at comfort, like the Live, Laugh, Love sign in the corner and the Hang in There!
kitten poster right next to it. Even the butterfly stickers on the window are a nice touch.

Joker’s not alone for long before a doctor joins him.

He hasn’t met this one before. She’s wearing big glasses and a lab coat like therapy with him
has to be carried out from behind personal protective equipment. She’s ginger, too. Her long
pretty hair reaches down behind her back, and she’s young— younger than any of the other
psychiatrists who have come in here and tried to figure out what’s wrong with him.

There’s a thick manila file under one of her arms, and she’s holding a steaming cup of black
coffee in one hand. The first thing she does is put down a voice recorder and hit the button to
start the tape.

‘Hi Dr. Quin—’ Joker leans in, squinting as he tries to read her lanyard. Dr. Harleen—
‘Quinz-el? Quin-zel?’

‘You can call me Harley,’ she says, taking the seat opposite him.

‘Okay, sure. I like your makeup, Harley.’

She’s wearing red lipstick, the lucky thing, with a perfect pale contour to match. Her eyeliner
makes lovely wings behind her pretty eyelashes. Her eyeshadow is autumnal, too; all deep
red and warm.

Harley smiles briefly at the compliment.

‘Thanks, hon.’

There’s something sad in her eyes. She sounds tired— looks it, too. Joker raises an eyebrow.
That’s usually how the doctors look when they leave the room with him, not when they first
walk in.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

‘Just having a bad day.’

She sighs soundlessly through her nose as she starts leafing through his file. Joker wasn’t
expecting this. If playing dejected is a therapy strategy, it’s not one they’ve tried on him
before.

‘Do you wanna talk about it?’ He saws his chains a little, making them rattle. ‘I’m a captive
audience, after all.’

‘Right,’ Harley snorts. ‘The Joker, Clown Prince of Crime, wants to hear about my bad day?’

‘I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.’

She takes a breath to say something, most likely to tell him no. But then she lets that breath
back out. After spending a long moment thinking it over, she shakes her head.

‘Fuck it,’ she decides. ‘Why not?’

She closes his file with a flick of her wrist.

‘So I got dumped,’ she starts.

‘No.’

‘Yep,’ she says, popping the p. She’s scowling now, but not at him. ‘A water main broke in
my building. Completely flooded my apartment. And suddenly that’s the last straw, even
though I never asked him to move here when I took this job. Even though he knows I can’t
afford a better place when he won’t even chip in for the rent.’

‘What? Why not?’

‘Because it’s my job,’ Harley says, her voice turning high with sarcasm. ‘And he doesn’t
want to be here anyway, so why should he have to pay?’

‘Asshole. Where does he work, then, if he thinks he’s so special?’

‘That’s just it! He doesn’t. He’s a crook, sure, but he gets an allowance from his rich parents
over in Blüdhaven to fall back on. Can you believe that?’

Joker nods sympathetically.

‘Girlfriend, I know the type. Want me to send him a mailbomb?’

It’s a nice surprise when Harley laughs, taking the offer in stride. She’s not doing any of the
things people normally do around him. She’s not wincing or flinching or looking at his teeth
like they belong on a chainsaw rather than attached to human gums.

‘I haven’t even got to the worst part yet,’ Harley adds, leaning back in her chair.

‘There’s more?’

‘You bet.’

‘Alright girl, I’m listening.’

Harley looks over her shoulder, checking to make sure they’re alone. Then she leans in like
they’re catching up over coffee, seemingly not worried about being in his grabbing range at
all.

‘So get this,’ she murmurs. ‘I get to work. Here, obviously. And I’m in my cubicle checking
what I have to get through today. And Dr. Crane— have you met him yet?’

‘Is he the stinky one?’

‘Yes,’ she groans, like it’s a secret she’s wanted to tell someone for years. ‘Yes, he’s the stinky
one. He comes over to my cubicle and he says to me— Hey, tits.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘Would I make this up?’

‘And what did you say?’

‘So he says hey, tits.’ She puts on a slimy voice for him and everything. ‘I’ve got a special
assignment for you. How would you like to interview The Joker? And I’m thinking, Is he out
of his mind? I graduated six months ago and I’ve been here two months. I’m thinking, Wow, I
must have really done something right. I’m really climbing the ladder here. And then this
fucker, he says to me, Just go put on a push-up bra.’

‘Oh, he is asking for it. And, for what it’s worth? Completely barking up the wrong tree.’

‘Two months and I’m sick of this place already.’ Harley drags down a breath, finally finished.
She frowns. ‘You’re really easy to talk to.’

‘Aw. It means a lot to hear you say that.’ Joker looks down at his chains, heart low in his
chest. ‘Most people just think I’m scary.’

Honestly, besides Batman? This is the longest anyone has ever spoken to him. It’s a shock to
the system to have a conversation where the other person isn’t begging him to let them go
free.

‘Hey.’ Harley nudges his shoulder, halting that sombre thought. She gives him an
encouraging smile. ‘Your turn now. You said you’d tell me yours, too.’

Joker looks away, pressing his lips together as he smiles. His cheeks are warm.

‘So there’s this guy I like,’ he admits.

Harley gives a sharp inhale of breath before she reaches for the tape recorder. She turns it off,
opens the back, then very deliberately pours coffee onto the batteries until they spit and
spark.

‘Is he hot?’ she asks, now that they’re alone.

Joker nods frantically.

‘You have no idea,’ Joker groans. ‘He’s tall, dark and handsome, and he has this deep voice.
So deep. And he has the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. God, he makes me melt.’

‘He got a sister?’

‘I don’t know. He doesn’t talk much about his personal life.’ Joker can hear himself pitching
down with sadness already. It’s only going to get worse. ‘So look, I fucked up. And I know
that. I’m big enough to admit it. I played a prank on him, but in hindsight, it was in poor
taste.’

Joker swallows.

‘Really poor taste,’ he amends.

‘What was the prank?’

‘I kind of, sort of …’ Joker winces. ‘I tried to fall off of a skyscraper.’

Harley’s face shifts with shock.

‘But I knew he’d stop me!’ he adds quickly. ‘I knew it wouldn’t actually happen, Harley. So
to me it was a leap of faith, you know? But to him …’

‘To him, it made ya look unstable.’ She nods thoughtfully. There’s a Brooklyn accent starting
to creep into her voice now that the tape recorder is broken. ‘So why’d you do it?’

‘I wanted to do something big,’ Joker explains. ‘To really show him how much he means to
me.’

‘To show him you trust him?’

‘Yes!’

His soul sings with the accuracy of it. That’s all he was trying to do. He just wanted to prove
to Batman that their game is something he has complete confidence in. He has every faith in
his Dark Knight. It wouldn’t matter if they were in an active volcano or at the deepest depths
of the Atlantic Ocean. Whenever Batman is trying to kick his teeth in, Joker just feels safe.

‘Here’s a better question,’ Harley says. ‘What did you learn from his reaction?’

Huh. That’s actually insightful. He thinks briefly that if therapy was like this all the time, he
wouldn’t mindfuck the doctors so hard to get them to cut it out. He and Bats touched on it a
little last night, but Harley has a point. Joker can’t just push the lesson into a drawer and call
it done. He needs to dwell on it, to really think it over until it cements into his head all of the
way.

‘I learned I need to tone it down,’ Joker says. ‘Lower the stakes. He doesn’t look like it, but
he’s sensitive. I need to think about his feelings, too.’

Harley’s eyes have turned all soft with pride. That look from someone who means it is a gift
Joker didn’t know how much he wanted.

‘See, you make perfect sense to me,’ she says.

And then she just looks angry.

Harley mutters a curse word before she throws open his file. It takes him aback how
aggressively she does it, flicking through the pages until she finds what she’s searching for.

‘Look at your rap sheet.’ She spins it around to show him. ‘Misdemeanours, petty theft, one
count of arson— of a building that turned out to be in OHS violation of every last law in the
book, where a posthumous investigation uncovered proof a worker melted to death on the
job. The way I see it? You did Gotham a favour when you raised that place to the ground.’

Joker has no words. She doesn’t know, does she? There’s no way. But she’s still advocating
for him—for all parts of him, even if she doesn’t know that—defending even the parts that
are dead to him now. Nobody has ever been on his side before.

‘And you know?’ Harley is fuming now, properly enraged. ‘If Batman did that? Nobody
would blink! But you do it? An openly queer man, wearin’ make-up and high heels? Wham!’
She slams her hand on the table so hard that it makes the last of her coffee bounce. ‘Straight
to the asylum.’

‘When you say it like that, it doesn’t sound fair.’

‘That’s because it isn’t fair, Joker.’ Her voice softens. ‘The way they treat you, it’s not right.
And it’s part of a pattern. A documented, ongoing pattern of them victimising our
community.’

Joker tips his head.

‘Our community?’

‘I’m queer too. Sorry, I should’ve said. I’m bi.’ Harley shakes her head like she’s
disappointed in herself. ‘But after this last break-up, I’m swearing off men. I really mean it
this time.’

‘Oh!’ Joker nods, realisation dawning. ‘I getcha now.’

‘Why, what community did you think I meant?’

And Joker—

He likes her.

He really, really likes her.

He grins with all his teeth now that he knows it won’t frighten her off, his answer just one
word:

‘Clowns.’

They wrap up the interview before long. Harley jots down the broken tape as a mechanical
error. Joker gives her a couple of titbits she can feed back to her superiors to help curry their
favour; tells her about a dream he had the other night where he was a ghost only cats could
see, let them chew on that one for a while.

When she finally leaves him in his room with an affectionate wave, he’s sad to see her go. He
wishes they could keep talking.
 He’s in bed that night, reading the book the librarian gave him on her rounds—It by Stephen
King, because apparently even the librarians here are complete sickos—when those painted
red and black fingernails go tippy-tap against his window. The door to his room unlocks with
a low beep. When it opens, there’s Harley.

She beams at him like they’ve been friends for years.

‘Harley?’ Joker stammers, jumping up from his cot. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘No time to chat, hon! The cameras are down for three minutes, best that I could do.’

She gestures to him frantically and Joker joins her in the hallway. There’s nobody else in
sight—no orderlies, no guards—not even any other doctors. An ecstatic giggle bursts out of
him at the dawning awareness that this is real.

‘I don’t want you hurting nobody on the way out, okay?’

‘You have my word!’ Joker crosses his heart, a huge grin splitting his face. Casualties aren’t
an option to him, anyway. It’s against the rules. ‘I won’t harm a hair on their misogynistic
heads. But Harley, why are you helping me?’

Harley grabs him by the ears and kisses him hard on the forehead.

‘Because you’re a riot,’ she says. ‘And you’re one of a kind, and you shouldn’ta been in here
to begin with. Now go get your man, boo.’

Joker’s grin could power the Arkham lighthouse and Harley’s smile is mile-wide in answer as
she nudges him along with the back of her hands. It’s not a sharp or dangerous smile, but it
doesn’t need to be. He still recognises it like it’s one of his own.

Chapter End Notes

I’m OVER these stories where Joker drives Harley insane with psychobabble when she
tries to do therapy on him. what if instead they just vibed??
 i’m turning back time
Chapter Summary

It’s Joker’s first scheme since escaping Arkham, and Gotham Central Shopping Mall is
squarely in his sights.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The first time Bruce sees Joker again after Arkham, it’s different than before.

The GCPD know what Joker is capable of. It’s a lesson they learned right from that very first
night. But they also learned that there’s precisely one negotiator the clown will drop anything
and everything to talk to. It’s getting to the point where, when Bruce hears Gordon’s callsign
hailing him over the police channels, he knows exactly what the commissioner is about to
say.

Police don’t have much to go on at this point beyond the frantic 911 call made out of the
deadbolted mall security office. The audio’s nearly incomprehensible in places, but towards
the end, it clears right up.

Forget the cops, the guard insists over the phone line. It’s the fucking Joker. You send in cops,
they’re coming outta here in body bags. Please man, I’m begging you.

Just send Batman.

Bruce parks the Nightrider near the loading entrance where it slopes down into the mall’s
lower basement. From there, he gains entry with the bypass code ferried to him through
Gordon, immediately beelining for the stairwell leading up to the shopping mall proper.

His steps echo through the empty dock. It’s silent otherwise, the space washed through with
grimy yellow light. Beyond a few trucks and some cleaning equipment, there’s not a lot down
here to see.

He stops in at the security office along the way. It’s still locked down tight. The guards only
open up when they hear Batman’s unmistakable growl.

The security office is set up a little like a break room, with a kitchenette along one wall and a
flat TV stuck up in the corner. Beyond that, the space is given over entirely to the dozen or so
monitors mounted above each desk. Every last one of them is currently tuned to a loading
screen.
The night guard stays next to the door he just opened, watching Batman with a mix of
wonder and worry. He’s in his fifties, all deep frown lines and a whiskery grey moustache.
BARNES, his nametag says. His partner is over at the desks, sat in a rolling chair with his
head in his hands. He’s tattooed from the wrist to the elbows, bouncing a leg from the nerves.

‘Where is he?’ Bruce snarls, but Barnes just shakes his head.

‘Couldn’t tell ya. Camera system is rebooting ‘cause the asshole got clever and started
freezin’ cams with a laser pointer he grabbed outta fuckin’ Petco.’

‘How did he get in?’ Bruce asks next.

‘Honest answer? He fuckin’ hid. We found it on the cameras earlier. He got under one of the
shelves in Saint Laurent. Like, crawled under it. Couldn’ta been more than a five-inch gap.
Five and a half, maybe.’

‘Like somethin’ out of a fucking horror movie,’ the other guard chimes in, bringing his nails
away from his mouth. ‘I watched his goddamn bones pop when he did it.’

Bruce grimaces. He’s familiar.

‘How is he getting into the other stores?’ he asks. ‘You mentioned Petco. Aren’t the shutters
down?’

Barnes looks sheepishly at his partner.

‘Most of ‘em are locked,’ he offers. ‘Store staff usually do it on their way out, I mean. But we
check to make sure on our first round of the night and lock the ones that don’t got manual
locks.’

‘So why hadn’t you?’

Barnes at least has the good grace to look ashamed.

‘There’s a game on.’ He fumbles over the explanation, rubbing the back of his flaming neck.
‘Knights are playing Colonials for a spot in the preliminaries.’

It’s all Bruce can do not to roll his eyes, not that either guard would know from behind the
cowl.

‘Where is he now?’

‘Weren’t you fucking listening?’ the nervy guard snaps from his desk. ‘Cameras are down.’

That bravado fades in an instant under Batman’s cold stare and low rattling growl. The guard
swallows, withering back into his seat.

‘Then where did you last see him?’ Bruce amends, keeping his words clipped.
‘Third floor,’ Barnes answers quickly, before his partner has a chance to. ‘The fifth camera he
hit was the one on the front entrance of Victoria Secret. That’s how many it takes to trip the
system, apparently.’

‘What else is up there?’

‘Fashion, mostly,’ Barnes explains. ‘Specialty outlets. Interissimi, Louis Vuitton. That kinda
thing.’

Of course. Bruce knows there would never be another answer as soon as he hears it. Where
else would Joker be? Chances are he’s about to walk in on the clown trying on high heels,
that or fetish gear.

‘Lock the door behind me,’ Bruce orders, already turning away. ‘I’ll deal with him.’

The guards don’t argue. Barnes only has two words in answer:

‘Watch yourself.’

Places like this turn eerie after dark. The loading bay was bad enough, but the mall itself is
far worse. Bruce walks past the empty tea shops and homemaking centres of the first floor,
trying hard not to feel like he’s being watched. With the power off, the only proper lights in
the mall come from the all-hours displays and café fridges dotted along the way. They buzz
lowly behind their security glass.

The dormant twin escalators leading to the next level are just another set of staircases. Even
the crunch of Bruce’s armoured boots on the hard metal steps has a faint echo.

He’s barely reached that third floor when he catches a giggle. It’s high-pitched and sudden,
and he has to fight down the smile that tries to take over his own mouth when he hears it. He
hates how infectious that laughter can be.

It’s even harder to keep it at bay when he follows that echo right through to H&M and sees
what exactly the clown is laughing about.

Joker has rearranged all of the mannequins. Instead of standing on their pedestals and posing
their clothes, they’re all on their hands and knees, linked from head to tail. That bizarre conga
line makes a long winding chain through the front of the store. He’s even figured out how to
turn the front spotlights on, giving his creation a dramatic twist.

Bruce bites down a laugh. It’s not funny, he scolds himself. It’s fucking absurd. It must have
taken him hours. What was the point? It’s not even property damage because none of the
mannequins appear broken— or even undressed, beyond what was necessary to get them into
position.

‘Is that a smile, Bats? For me? You shouldn’t have.’

When Bruce turns, he finds Joker sitting behind him on top of one of the juice counters. His
legs are crossed at the ankles as he eagerly leans forward. He’s foregone his usual long coat
tonight for the ease of motion. It shows off the arm garters keeping his sleeves at the right
length, their colour matched exactly to his dark purple suspenders.

‘No, you shouldn’t have,’ Bruce growls. ‘They’ll have to hold off on opening tomorrow to fix
this.’

‘Sure,’ Joker agrees. ‘But think of how hard the cashiers are going to laugh when they walk
in.’

‘You’re sick. Kids come here.’

Joker just titters, giving him a dubious look.

‘What do you mean, sick? This is a cinematic homage to one of the most ambitious avant-
garde film trilogies of our time!’

‘You made a human centipede out of department store mannequins.’

‘I sure did, handsome.’

Joker slides easily from the countertop, landing on the short heels of his ankle-length purple
boots. The way the clown starts toward him is less of a prowl and more of a saunter, his eyes
gleaming with mirth as he swishes his hips the same way models do.

‘And doesn’t that just make you hate me?’ Joker suggests. ‘Doesn’t that just make you want
to get a little rough?’

He’s wearing checkered trousers that Bruce strongly suspects are tailored to his legs and ass.
The spots on his polka dot shirt are the same neon green as his eyes and his nail polish, but
the backing colour is as deep a forest jade as his bouncy green hair. The final touch is the
sleek lavender ribbon tied in a bow through his collar.

‘More than a little.’ Bruce looks over that outfit again, his mouth a thin line. He knows that
kind of make. More to the point, he knows the price-tag attached to it. ‘How much of that
have you stolen?’

Joker lets out an offended gasp, hand flying to his throat.

‘Not a stitch! At least, not from here. I wouldn’t be caught dead in this rubbish. No, I prefer a
much more … personal touch, if you catch my meaning.’

‘I don’t,’ Bruce answers honestly. ‘Maybe you can explain it to me from inside your prison
cell.’

Joker just laughs in delight. He even makes a little coo, fluttering his eyelashes
performatively.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? I’m right here. And, baby, I’m all yours.’
Bruce grabs for him, but that’s exactly what Joker wanted. The clown dives under his arm,
giggling wildly right from the get.

But that’s what Bruce wanted from him in turn.

He swirls around, using the rotational movement of his hips and the counter rotation from his
shoulders to power a roundhouse kick. Joker only barely manages to bounce back out of
range from the attack. It cuts the clown’s giggles to silence.

Bruce has him with his back to a wall now, the front windows of H&M limiting Joker’s
options for escape. He presses that advantage while it’s still there, powering forward into his
adversary’s space.

Joker sees him coming and reacts, bouncing up on one leg so he can drive the other down
toward Bruce’s front leg. Trying to pre-empt the attack— trying to get Batman off-balance so
he can dart past him a second time. Bruce doesn’t break stride. He just moves his leg so the
kick connects to his shin instead— his shin, painstakingly trained by striking padded bags for
hours on end.

Joker may as well be kicking at a Northern Oak. Going by the hiss that slips from his mouth,
it hurt more to deliver than it did to receive.

Bruce gets closer into range now, quick to clinch the other man by the shoulders. Joker tries
to wriggle out. When that gets him nowhere, he drives an open-handed punch to Bruce’s
wrist, trying to break the hold: nothing. There’s no escape when Batman has him pinned like
this.

Joker has just enough time to look at him, wide-eyed, before Bruce brings a knee up into his
chest.

It does the job. It leaves the clown winded, wheezing out a breathless whine.

Then he chuckles.

Bruce’s frustration spikes at the sound. He lets Joker go, backing up enough to hit him again.

‘Stop,’ Bruce growls, drawing back an elbow, ‘laughing.’

He wants the uppercut to shut Joker up. Ideally, it would rip the clown’s brow a little, get
some blood in his eyes. That would limit his vision as a result, giving Bruce a new advantage.

It does precisely none of that when Joker gasps and ducks, dropping to his knees.

Bruce’s fist crashes through the front window. The glass there is so thick that it doesn’t break
beyond the hole he’s punched through it, shards and splinters raining down around his hand.
He snarls, trying to rip free, but then the gauntlet barbs get caught in the hole.

He’s stuck.

And Joker—god fucking damn him—outright howls with laughter.

The smaller man bounces around the masked vigilante with rank glee, pointing and cackling
like a schoolyard bully.

‘Jeez, Bats,’ Joker taunts. ‘If the Gazette saw you like this … but then, you know what they
say! Mall publicity is good publicity!’

‘Urgh.’

Joker screams laughing at that reaction.

Bruce curses himself for it. He shouldn’t have let himself groan. It always gives Joker an
energy boost when he does, like the clown siphons excitement from other people getting mad
at him. Tonight is no exception. Joker giggles wildly as he takes off running back the way
Bruce came, disappearing toward the escalators.

Bruce growls as he slams the code to recede the barbs so he can free himself, then
immediately relaunches them as he gives chase. Joker’s not getting away this time.

Joker reaches the escalators before him. The power’s down, so they’re not in motion. They’re
just two mechanical staircases side by side that Joker ignores entirely. Instead, the clown
shoots down the metal path between the escalators without any hesitation, Mary Poppins
style. He whoops like a madman the whole way down.

Bruce falters. He’d rather go down the escalator stairs, but that would take longer. It doesn’t
leave him with much in the way of a choice if he doesn’t want Joker to broaden the gap
between them.

He has to take that slide, too.

Joker just cheers him on from the bottom of the escalators like he knows exactly the
conundrum that the Dark Knight is grappling with.

‘Go on, Bats!’ he calls through cupped hands. ‘It will be our secret!’

Don’t smile, Bruce chastises himself. Don’t you dare. There’s nothing funny about that at all.
He’s making fun of you.

And who wouldn’t? He’s pathetic. It must look ridiculous, a grown man dressed up like a
fucking bat, playing superhero in a mask and cape.

They’d be so disappointed in you. In the idiot you’ve become.

Bruce’s jaw tightens, self-directed anger screwing it shut.

They must be rolling in their fucking graves.

He vaults up onto the divider then and there, halfway hoping he can leave those thoughts
behind him when he takes the slide just like Joker did.

Speaking of Joker—
He still hasn’t run off, even with the opportunity right there and wide open. He’s far more
taken with cheering for Batman like he’s winning a race, a one-man crowd hooting and
punching the air. There isn’t an ounce of judgement to be found there— only revelry and
celebration.

And for a second, this doesn’t feel like a mission. And Joker doesn’t feel like a villain. And
Bruce doesn’t feel like Batman, not even one bit.

Something is dancing right at the edges of his awareness like a memory that’s just barely out
of his reach. It’s like déjà vu— no, that’s not it. It’s more like nostalgia. It’s a soft, sepia
feeling, like catching a smell half-remembered from childhood.

They’re not Batman and the Joker— at least, not right now. It’s more like they’re two
teenagers. Just a couple of kids sneaking into a shopping mall afterhours, fooling around and
making their own fun.

That eerie, familiar feeling lasts all the way to the bottom of the escalator rail. Bruce hits the
ground boots first, his cape whooshing around him in the landing. Joker’s still watching
every moment even as he backpedals through the empty food court.

‘That was amazing, baby,’ Joker promises, eyes sparking like phosphors in the dark. ‘I’m so
proud of you.’

Bruce’s face flames with heat. There’s nothing to be proud of. That’s the most childish thing
he thinks he’s done in all the years since he first hit double digits. He’s so busy processing
that embarrassment, it takes him longer than it should to notice Joker isn’t laughing anymore.

Bruce follows him through the closed food court. He’s not so much chasing him now as
much as he’s tracking where Joker has been. At first, he goes by the disturbed chairs and
tables. Then he clicks the cowl into infrared, following the green footprints Joker has left
behind. They’re already fading back to blue as their lingering heat disperses.

He catches up to Joker at the front of a homewares store, though that makes it sound more
dramatic than it is. Really, Joker isn’t running. And the way Bruce stalks over to join him at
the display window hardly qualifies as a chase.

His eyes flit to the sign over the entrance.

POTTERY BARN

The roller shutter is down over the entrance to the store but the windows are still exposed.
Joker’s standing by one, looking serenely inside. He doesn’t even glance up as Bruce moves
to stand beside him, following his gaze to the furniture arranged there.

Oh.

It’s a display nursery, all cosy and gender neutral. There’s a sitting chair. It’s next to a
bookcase stocked with early readers and children’s classics, with a lamp shaped like a hare.
It’s clever—it matches the rabbit stuffies in the corner of the crib—the books displayed on
the nightstand, too. The Velveteen Rabbit, Watership Down, and The Collected Works of
Beatrix Potter, all in a neat little pile.

Bruce’s heart twists, looking at that crib. It’s got that stripped back, minimalist style. It
wouldn’t match any of the Elizabethan-meets-Jacobean stylings of the Manor. But God, he
just wouldn’t care. If it meant having a kid, having a baby—

He wouldn’t care at all.

Yearning tugs at him like a hook in his heart, even when Joker hums out a contented little
sigh.

‘It’s never a good idea to go furniture shopping this late,’ Joker says. ‘Wanna know why?’

Bruce knows full well that he’s going to drop the punchline no matter what, so he bites out a
terse answer.

‘Why.’

Joker raises one white finger, pointing at the end table with its little pile of rabbit-themed
literature.

‘Because,’ he says lowly. ‘It can lead to one nightstand.’

For fuck’s sake.

Bruce gives him a baleful look. He hopes the point still comes across through the cowl.

‘You’re lucky I don’t kill people.’

The threat rolls right off Joker. If anything, he’s amused by it. An easy, shark-toothed smile
spreads its way across his mouth.

‘And don’t I know it.’ He lets out another slow sigh, acid green eyes fluttering to a close.
‘Right now, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.’

He trails off from there, quietly humming a song Bruce doesn’t recognise. And Bruce tries to
stay focussed. He really, truly does. He tries to keep himself a tense, coiled spring, ready to
intercept and defuse any incoming danger.

But it’s that crib.

His eyes float back to it like moths to fire, his heart aching inside. His own childhood ended
in a blood-soaked alley. It broke there like pearls on cobblestone. But he’d move heaven and
earth to protect his own child from ever facing that same fate.

Just imagining it is enough to have him feeling protective, even over an empty crib.

I’d do anything for you, he’s silently vowing to a non-existent baby. No-one is ever going to
hurt you.
I won’t ever let that happen.

‘I just thought of another one,’ Joker says, cracking one eye open. ‘A man walks into a gun
shop and asks the cashier, Say, sir, which of these is your best pistol?’

It’s automatic: Bruce can’t help it. He can feel himself bristling like the barbs aren’t just
attachments to his costume but protrusions from his own body. Joker keeps running his set-
up, none the wiser to the brewing storm he’s standing alongside.

‘That depends, replies the cashier. What are you shooting at? Just cans, the man says with a
shrug. The cashier gives him an odd look. Well, what kind of cans are we talking about? And
the man, he shrugs again. All kinds of cans, really, he says. Americans, Anglicans,
Republicans …’

Bruce can’t take his eyes off the crib.

‘I’ve heard that one before,’ he growls. ‘But I remember it being significantly more racist.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Joker wrinkle his little white nose.

‘I really don’t see the appeal in that sort of thing, personally,’ the clown opines. ‘As far as
I’m concerned?’

Then Joker reaches behind himself, and just like that, Bruce’s rational mind leaves the
building.

‘We should see those jokes out with a—’

It’s as far as he lets Joker get.

He doesn’t think— couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He sees that shape in Joker’s hand and all
he knows is gun. There’s no reasoning with the furious monster that takes over the driver’s
seat, not when the only word between his ears is gun. Gun, and it’s sleek and grey and deadly
where Joker is drawing it free from his waistband.

Bruce never lets him bring it higher than his hip.

The Bat is iron, unyielding—growling loud and dangerous as he grabs Joker’s wrist in one
hand and his throat in the other—hauling him around like a ragdoll before he slams him up
against the security shutter. It rattles and booms in place like the thundercloud Bruce feels
like.

No, do you hear me? No.

He’s snarling, the thunder breaking every time he slams Joker’s wrist to the shutter, pinning
his thumb and first finger so that he can’t press the trigger, twisting and squeezing to force
him to let go. Joker’s pulse races under his clenching fist.

Drop it, Bruce shouts. Now, drop it.

Joker’s wheezing and wide-eyed where Bruce is choking him—CRASH—again, his wrist to
the metal—CRASH—until Joker finally, finally lets go of the gun. It clatters to the waxed
mall floor and just as it goes still, it goes off—

—with a little plastic click.

A tiny blue flag pops out of the muzzle.

In blocky little letters, it says just one word.

BANG!

Bruce is breathing so hard that he’s almost hyperventilating.

‘It wasn’t …’

The rest of the sentence falls away before he can finish it. He can’t get the words out, too
breathless and stupid to describe the horror of what just happened. He tries again.

‘It’s not …’

‘Batsy.’ Joker takes over from him, speaking where he can’t. ‘You’re crying.’

His voice is softer than Bruce has ever heard it. It takes a moment for him to think any further
than that observation— for the meaning of Joker’s statement to filter through the shellshock.
Is he crying? Bruce can’t feel it, if he is.

‘Darling?’ Joker prompts gently, but Bruce is a world away.

It’s a world focussed entirely on the bones of Joker’s wrist. They leap against his powder
white skin, especially his radius. It’s a square block pressing out from below the back of his
hand, impossibly stark. His wrists are so tiny where they taper into his forearm.

The embarrassment is flaying Bruce’s skin right from the muscle. He should have noticed.
Glancing at the gun now, it’s so obvious that it’s made of plastic. It’s not real. Not real. Just a
toy, a child’s plaything, and it leaves Bruce wondering if there’s a way to take back the last
two minutes or even just to disappear altogether.

‘Your hand …’

‘Never better,’ Joker insists. ‘Don’t you give it another thought.’

Bruce isn’t buying it, not when he can see the bruises blooming up already. He’s shocked that
Joker’s wrist isn’t outright broken. There has to be something he’s missing.

‘Show me,’ Bruce growls.

Joker obeys, offering his hand up without question.

That trust is stupefying. The fight is obviously, unspeakably over, but that doesn’t change the
fact of what Bruce just did to him. The proof of it is right there when Bruce turns over
Joker’s hand.

Joker’s wrist is darkening up and tender, purple bloodlines peeking out wherever there’s a
crease in his skin. His wrist is swollen enough that it must have dislocated more than once
when Bruce was attacking him. Bruce just stares, swirling inside with self-loathing. It’s hard
to speak through all of that shame.

‘I didn’t mean to.’

Joker covers the gauntlet with his free hand, hiding the damaged one from view.

‘I know,’ he says softly. ‘I could tell.’

Joker takes a breath to continue speaking, but then he lets it slide back out through his nose.

It makes Bruce hate himself even more that he’s not angry or afraid. The only thing he can
detect from Joker at all is sympathy. It’s a gentle, even type of sadness. And it’s one that isn’t
for Joker’s own sake at all.

‘I’m trying to get this right for you, Bats. I swear I am. So tell me where I went wrong, and it
won’t ever happen again.’

‘I overreacted,’ Bruce protests, but Joker just snorts.

‘Oh, pibble! Have you met me? All I do is overreact.’

At any other time, Bruce wouldn’t dare. He’d rather be captured and tortured for days straight
then give up a single detail about himself, let alone such a personal vulnerability. But to deny
Joker this would unbalance the scales between them even more than he has already. It would
tip the guilt further again.

His parents didn’t raise a monster, did they?— didn’t raise him at all beyond the age of
eleven because they never got that chance. They were denied that by the kind of vicious,
thoughtless evil that Bruce just did a scarily good job of imitating.

He’s so desperate to counteract that action that he does the unthinkable.

‘I don’t like guns,’ Bruce growls.

‘Mm, I gathered that much.’ Joker jerks his head toward the plastic toy. ‘But, darling, that
thing is about as dangerous as a water pistol.’

‘They bring up bad memories.’

He has to close his eyes to make himself confess even that. It’s the thought of the earnest
thing Joker’s face will shift into that he can’t stand to see. Worse than that, it’s the joke Bruce
can already tell is forming behind those arrowhead teeth.
‘Please don’t say it.’

Joker tilts his head, playing dumb.

‘Say what, love?’

‘You know exactly what.’

Those acid green eyes still sparkle with good humour.

‘If you say it, I won’t have to,’ Joker points out.

It’s cheeky, not to mention insensitive. But Bruce can still recognise Joker’s razor smile for
the olive branch that it is. It’s the only reason why he pulls in a slow breath and acquiesces to
the request, answering in a low growl.

‘Guns trigger me.’

Joker’s bark of laughter is pitched so high, it’s almost a shriek. But it’s not at Bruce. Joker’s
even good enough not to let it devolve into a proper laugh.

‘Not a problem,’ the clown announces. ‘Consider them retired from my repertoire.’

It’s hard to believe that the agreeable, compassionate jester in front of him is the same manic
madman keeping Gotham under his thrall, and Batman along with it. First, Joker happily
takes killing and casualties off the table. Then he swears off firearms without a word of
protest.

‘You keep this up and you’ll run out of material,’ Bruce points out, but Joker just waves him
off.

‘Oh, hardly. I have more up my sleeve than you know.’

‘Literally,’ Bruce rumbles.

Joker preens even as he pitches up to his tiptoes to reach Bruce’s cheeks. In an instant, he has
a handful of never-ending handkerchiefs between his slender fingers. He uses them to
carefully dab at the wet places along Bruce’s cheekbones.

It’s very difficult not to react. Every instinct Bruce has in him is screaming to push Joker
away— to get some distance between them before Joker can make him regret the closeness,
or worse, before the clown can notice some new detail about the bottom half of his face.

But then his eyes rake over Joker’s wrist again.

The imprint of Bruce’s fingers make a bracelet there, the bruises already blaring purple and
black. It makes his stomach tighten with shame. He did that. He could have broken Joker’s
arm.
There are even little rips in the sleeve of his polka dot green shirt, just below the garter belt
around Joker’s elbow. They’re the places where the gauntlet barbs cut through Joker’s
clothing when Bruce was trying to make him drop the play-pretend gun. Little spots of
Joker’s blood darken those torn places in the material. Holding still for him is the least Bruce
can do, after doing that.

It’s not an apology. It’s not even close.

But it’s the closest thing to one that Bruce knows how to give.

For Joker’s part, he’s so focussed on his task that he doesn’t seem to have noticed how his
tongue is peeking out. It’s almost cute. He’s on his tiptoes and still only barely comes up to
Bruce’s chin.

He’s being careful, too. It doesn’t seem that way at first, given how shamelessly Joker’s
invading his personal space. But then Bruce starts to realise how Joker isn’t letting their skin
touch. He only makes contact through the handkerchief, and he’s not leaning on Bruce at all,
either. He’s keeping perfect balance on his toes like an acrobat or a ballerina.

Bruce isn’t sure he’s ever seen Joker this calm before, except for maybe that night on Wayne
Tower. But this is different. It’s safer. It’s that same peaceful concentration but without any of
the risk.

Has Joker ever touched him? Outside of a fight, when things aren’t life or death, have those
fingers ever brushed up against his skin? They can’t have. If they had, Bruce would
remember.

If they had, there wouldn’t be a part of him silently urging Joker to stop being so careful.

Joker’s tongue only slips back into his mouth once he’s properly satisfied. It does a quick lap
over his lipstick first, passing over his mouth in a rolling wet motion. It leaves his scarlet lips
agleam.

Joker’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles up at him.

‘There,’ he beams, easing back down from his toes. ‘All better.’

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Bruce growls. Joker just giggles.

‘Methinks the hero doth protest too much.’

Bruce grumbles in answer, ready to argue the point. From there, he knows he can phase the
argument back toward the physical. He’ll feel like himself again once they’re back in familiar
territory—steadier, stronger—impenetrable inside and out.

That’s when the Bat emblem pulses electric blue.

It’s an alert, automated to match the more obvious one that isn’t always in Bruce’s field of
vision. Sure enough, when he looks up to the skylights in the mall ceiling, there’s the Bat
signal. It’s a yellow beacon against the cloudy night sky, hazy and blurry but undeniably his.
‘Looks like they’re playing your song, Bats,’ Joker murmurs.

Joker’s watching the skylights, too. He doesn’t look annoyed like Bruce had expected him to
be. And he doesn’t look satisfied or delighted, either, like Bruce had feared he might. The
corners of his red mouth are tipped down just barely. Joker’s white nose moves a little as he
blows out a resigned breath. Somehow, Bruce knows it without needing to be told or
convinced.

Whatever reason Gordon had for lighting the signal tonight, it has nothing to do with Joker.

‘What now, love?’ the clown asks. ‘You can try to catch and cuff me if you like, but I’m
afraid I won’t make it easy for you.’

It’s tempting. Bruce could go another round with Joker until he can get him pinned down,
then cuff him by the wrists and elbows where he won’t be able to contort his way free. From
there, it would be easy enough to lock him in the Batmobile until Bruce can deal with
whatever emergency is going on elsewhere.

But then what?

The worst thing Joker did tonight was a misdemeanour at best, that and a nuisance charge. He
didn’t even break in. All he did was hide from security, then move some things around. It’s
hardly worth taking him back to Arkham for— or wasting police time, for that matter.

Joker waits earnestly for an answer. He’s rocking back on his heels a little, thumbs through
the belt loops of his checkered trousers. He makes it look casual but Bruce knows better. He’s
getting ready to evade. At the first signal Bruce gives him, he’s going to spring into action.

It’s a good thing, then, that Bruce made up his mind the moment he saw that beacon on the
clouds.

‘Go,’ he growls.

Joker just looks at him blankly for a moment before he seems to reattach the word to its
meaning. When he does, he reaches behind himself for the security door. He repositions his
weight against it like it’s suddenly hard to keep his own balance.

‘Go,’ Bruce insists again, patience waning. ‘Before I change my mind.’

Joker raises an eyebrow, clearly doubtful.

‘I’m right here, Bats. You might not get another chance as good as this one.’

He’s not wrong. The Clown Prince has a way of turning the tables on Bruce just when he
thinks he finally has him cornered. He’s slippery. It could be a long time before Bruce
manages to get his guard this far down again.

‘Maybe,’ Bruce agrees. ‘Or maybe I won’t want one.’

It’s not hard to see that Joker’s touched by the gesture. He moves a colourless hand toward
his own chest, like he’s covering his heart or maybe feeling for the arrow that Batman just put
in it.

It’s a different strategy than he’s ever tried before: catch and release. But if tonight was
Joker’s move, then this is Bruce’s. Trust is a two-way street, after all.

Just the same as their dance.

‘Good night, Joker.’

‘Wait!’ Joker blurts, making to follow him. He stops immediately when Bruce growls.
Joker’s teeth are threatening his bottom lip. ‘Can I at least walk you to your car?’

‘Left it at home,’ Bruce grunts. ‘The Rider is faster.’

But he still waves a hand for Joker to follow him as he starts for the stairwell. He can at least
make sure Joker isn’t on mall property when he leaves. Letting Joker bounce along beside
him is, unfortunately, the fastest way to make sure that happens.

As they head for the loading bay, Joker checks his own reflection in the shop windows with
enough shine to show it. He re-ties the ribbon through his collar, even on the go. He touches
up his lipstick, too.

Bruce imagines this must be what passes for subtlety in Joker’s world, even when it’s
woefully obvious to everyone else. The smaller man even checks his breath against the back
of one hand.

Keep dreaming, Romeo.

He’s doing an admirable job of ignoring Joker’s antics until the clown awkwardly clears his
throat, looking up at him through his curled eyelashes.

‘So when you say the Rider …’

He doesn’t know?

Bruce takes a moment to process that. Of course he wouldn’t. It’s easy to forget that Joker’s
still new to this. Information that’s old hat to the more established rogues still catches the
clown by surprise.

‘The Nightrider, yeah. It’s another one of the Batmobiles. My motorcycle.’

‘Oh,’ Joker says softly, keeping stride alongside him.

He says it a second time when he sees the Rider in person.

It’s a sleek ride, aerodynamic and low to the ground. It’s customised, too. Batman’s signature
matte black is so dark that it vanishes into the shadows whenever he rides. Every edge has a
sharp line, right down to the flaring exhaust pipes and bat-shaped handlebars. There’s a
distinctly futuristic flare to its custom cut rims.

It stops Joker right in his tracks when he first picks out the Nightrider against the gloom. His
breath leaves him in a shuddering, wonderstruck gasp.

‘Oh,’ he chokes out. ‘Oh, wow.’

‘I’d offer you a ride,’ Bruce grunts sardonically, climbing onto the seat. ‘But I don’t think I
have the time.’

‘No,’ Joker agrees. His tongue quickly darts out of his mouth to wet his lips. ‘I’d imagine you
don’t. You never know, though. There’s always next time.’

Bruce looks at him in disbelief.

‘You’re already planning a next time?’

There are a hundred words and more to describe Joker’s smile. It can be feral and deranged
just as easily as it can dial to a sleazy smirk, an unspoken innuendo.

‘Oh, darling.’

The smile he hits Bruce with now, it’s helpless. It’s built from pure devotion.

‘Yes,’ Joker promises. ‘Yes, I very much am.’

It’s impossible to know if it’s dread or anticipation suddenly trailing ice down Bruce’s spine,
twisting his insides into a different shape. There are times when both of those things feel
exactly the same to him. It can be weightless, almost; a sharp flash of adrenaline dropping the
bottom out from his stomach, like climbing without a rope. It’s swan diving from on high, not
knowing what’s in the water below.

And there it is again: that feeling like Bruce is slipping out of time. That impossible,
irresistible feeling like reality can double back over on itself and the distant past can overlap
with the present moment.

For a moment, there is no Batman. There’s just Bruce Wayne, holding onto the handlebars
with scarred knuckles, the rattling roar of his Ducati the one thing in the world that can
drown out the storm between his ears. He shakes it off as best he can, but it’s not that easy.
It’s never been that easy.

And when he gives Joker one last onceover from behind the Rider’s visor, it’s with a new
trepidation.

You, Bruce thinks as he fires the engine, have a way of making me feel young again.

‘Then I’ll see you there,’ Bruce replies in a low growl, and guns the accelerator.

Before Joker can say anything else in response.

 Before Batman can fade any further from Bruce.

Chapter End Notes

so fucking proud of this one guys

if the pacing's iffy in a couple places I'm SORRY! i'll check over it in a day or two &
tweak accordingly

but for now i'm so fucking jazzed just to be done

 chasing the ghosts that would haunt me at night
Chapter Summary

Joker’s game with Batman continues to evolve, especially when faced with a new
complication.

Joker keeps his promise. He lowers the stakes.

He starts adding countdowns to his pranks. At first, it’s just for fun. But every time he tells
Batman that there’s a timer ticking down to something in some empty building, the hero
seems to feel an irresistible need to defuse it. And Joker’s very careful not to lie, but at the
same time— Batman doesn’t need to know every detail, does he? Like that Joker’s bombs are
only rigged to laugh in his face if their timers hit zero or spray him with a water flower if he
ever cuts the wrong wire.

They say creativity thrives under restrictions. They’re right about that, because not being able
to escalate their game challenges Joker to think outside the box. It makes it a lot easier that
Batman treats it like life or death every time, no matter how stupid Joker’s pranks get.

It had been just after the mall, the same week Joker got out of Arkham. He’d still been
feeling out the balance, trying to find the middle ground between intense and absurd. But as
soon as Joker unveiled this particular trap, they both knew he’d undershot it completely.

Because Batman was tied up to a chair, and so were Commissioner Gordon and Mayor
McCaskill on the other side of the room. And Joker had made it really clear that Batman had
to pick which one of his hostages would get dunked in green and purple jelly. He made it so
clear, comically clear, desperate to show that he’d meant what he’d said. That he understood.
That he was committed to playing by the rules. He even explained that once the dunking was
complete, all of their bonds would unlock and they’d be free to go.

There were no stakes at all, absolutely no risk, but Batman begged him not to do it for almost
an hour straight. Let them go, Joker, it’s me you want! Don’t do this! They’re innocent!— all
while the two hostages watched on in confusion.

Joker had to bite back a snort, fighting not to break character. But every time he managed to
get back in the zone, Batman would start back up.

This is wrong, you know this is wrong! I know you can change!

In the end, Joker couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even keep a straight face. It was worth it, though,
because when the hostages were free and it was just the two of them again, Batman gave him
one of those rare chuckles.
I needed this, he said. Thanks, Joker.

Joker loves that memory now. It’s one of his favourites, and whenever it floats up to the
surface, his heart tips over just like it did when it first happened.

Things between them have been good lately.

Like today. It’s been such a fun day. Joker put one of his barrels of exploding golf balls to
good use at the Gotham Country Club and he’s been riding that high ever since. He wanted to
keep the joke going so he snuck into the back of the cinemas down in the Diamond District,
hiding a comedy festival’s worth of Smylex under his clothes.

Gotham Theatre is no fun, all gloomy and sad. But the low-brow commercial cinemas? Those
are nothing but opportunity. Because they’re screening reruns of Disney Classics each day
while they build up to the release of the latest live-action remake. Today’s was The Lion King
and the place sold out of tickets, so Joker rigged the whole cinema with laughing gas and
didn’t hit the release on it until Mufasa died.

Batman catches up to him as he’s slipping out through the staff only area behind the curtain.

‘This time you’ve gone too far, Joker,’ he growls, completely serious, and Joker laughs so
hard that he can’t fucking breathe.

Then they’re fighting like even the handful of hours since last night was too long. And
Batman has to know how ridiculous he’s being, doesn’t he? He’s such a good actor, so
convincingly vengeful. But he has to know how silly it is every time he barks at Joker just for
making some people laugh, right?

Joker loves that he can never tell.

‘There’s a room in Arkham with your name on it,’ Batman snarls, stalking toward him
through the backstage. Joker just grins.

‘Why did the lion cross the road?’

Batman seems to think he knows this one.

‘Because there was a zebra crossing.’

‘No!’ Joker screams. ‘To get to the other pride!’

Batman scowls and dives at Joker with his fists raised. But it’s in their way, where the
punches are pulled just the right amount.

Because Joker still hasn’t killed anyone—not a single person—and he’s never going to, not
when the trade-off keeps Batman in this liminal place between hate and something more. Not
when keeping his pranks this stupid means that he gets to have his darling’s attention just like
this.
They burst into the alley behind the cinema. It’s wet with rain, the air tasting like dust and
flowers, and Joker nods to the fire escape.

‘Should we take this upstairs?’

‘You’re not getting away this time.’

‘I’m not trying to get away, Bats! Just trying to get you alone.’

‘No.’

‘C’mon! It’s such a nice night. Don’t you want to see the satellites?’ Joker’s getting nowhere,
he can tell, so he squints over Batman’s shoulder. ‘Is that Superman?’

Batman looks and Joker runs, parkouring from the low wall to the skip bins and then
launching his way up to the metal ladder. He ducks behind the rail when he hears the
grappling hook’s gas release. The last time it hit him, his ribs were bruised for an entire week.

But the hook’s not aiming at him for once, twisting around the railing on the roof instead, and
Joker suddenly realises that this is a race.

He times it just right before he throws himself from the fire escape, slamming into Batman,
laughing with glee as he latches around him like a spider monkey.

‘Gotcha!’

They land in a crash, the fall knocking the breath out of them both. Batman is quick to tackle
him down to the roof. They tumble together before their momentum lurches to a stop.

Joker was right. Instead of stars, satellites are blinking half-heartedly through Gotham’s dark
clouds. Here and there in the cloud breaks, he even spots a plane. There’s one in the distance
charting a path down to Gotham International, so removed from what they’re doing together
on the roof.

Normally, Batman would roll right off. This time he doesn’t. He stays pressed down on top of
Joker, pinning him down, breathing hot and heavy. He’s not letting go. It’s wet from the rain,
but Joker doesn’t mind. He’s content enough to savour the contact while he can.

‘You should have told me you like to cuddle, Bats,’ Joker says, straightening the cowl for
him. ‘This whole time, I thought you were a pump-and-dump kind of guy.’

His laughter cuts out when Batman’s touch lingers at his neck.

Joker’s breath hitches. Nerves bubble up in him as he tries to remember his moves, trying to
puzzle out whether he really did cross a line.

It’s been a while since Bats flirted with the idea of choking him. The only time he’s really
done it was the mall, but that hardly counts. He wasn’t in his right mind.
Joker can feel that scorching heat through the gauntlet again now as the leather fans out
around his throat. And that’s not all he can feel. There’s a pressure against Joker’s thigh. It’s
muted by Batman’s thick leather, but still undeniable.

Joker’s next laugh is more of a squeak, and it’s nothing to do with Batman’s hand around his
throat because he’s not even trying to choke him. He’s just touching, exploring Joker’s neck
with the tips of his gloves. It makes Joker feel like he’s going to have a seizure.

He’s been flirting with Batman ever since they met. It’s always been one-sided, but that’s
never been a problem. Their game is more than enough for Joker just the way it is.

It never occurred to him that maybe it didn’t have to be.

Maybe they could be something better.

‘Bats?’ Joker barely dares to whisper for fear of ruining the moment. ‘You’re hard, darling.’

Batman growls right against his ear.

‘Hold … still.’

Joker’s eyes flutter shut. God, his voice. It’s just unfair.

It’s so embarrassing how Joker’s already half-hard. He started getting there the moment
Batman touched him soft instead of heavy, gentle instead of mean. The vat didn’t just mess
with Joker’s sense of pain: it inverted his skin sensitivity altogether. Rough touches may not
tend to register with him, but the gentle ones …

Batman groans out a dark rattle as he grinds against him. His breath is so hot that it
practically singes Joker’s ear, making his back tingle.

Joker whimpers from how right this feels, his hands grabbing the shoulders of the Batsuit.
Bats is burning at a fever pitch even there. He’s so hot that Joker can feel it through the
leather. He swallows, trying to make his voice less shaky.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m into this. I’m really into this. But you’re running a little, ah— hot,
aren’t you?’

‘You have a remarkable constitution, Batman.’

Her skin is green, a more natural shade than Joker’s neon hair. Her gloves are dark as a forest
canopy and reach right up to her elbows, matching the colour of her tights. White lilies bloom
from her long red hair. There are even patterns of sprouting vines around her shoulders, a
darker shade than the rest of her.

Joker grits his teeth at the interruption. Other people aren’t supposed to get in the way.

He eases out from under Batman, who instantly curls in on himself without Joker there
keeping him steady. It’s worrying, but Joker has a bigger problem to deal with.
He looks her over again. It’s impossible to know which parts of her costume are fabric and
which are plant-based. It’s a secret between her and her powers, because this can’t be from
anything else. Golden pollen hangs in the air all around her, just like the thick green vines
bursting out of the rooftop to lift her up.

‘And who exactly would you be?’ Joker asks, unimpressed.

The woman in the vines ignores his question, giving him a quick once-over.

‘You’re not sweating.’

‘Moisturizer makes all the difference, girlfriend.’

‘You should be out of your mind.’

‘Stark raving! I’ve heard it all before.’

Joker waves pollen out of his face, holding in a sneeze. Her eyes narrow. He’s used to that
look: like he’s an abomination, something unnatural. Like he’s not following her rules.

‘Most people would have torn their clothes off by now,’ she observes.

Ah. There it is. The disappointment Joker feels all at once is like a rush of ice water. He
should have known it was too good to be true. It wasn’t Batman’s choice to touch him like
that.

Someone else was pulling his strings.

‘Not like it matters,’ she decides. ‘This has nothing to do with you.’

‘Doesn’t it? You just roofied my Bat.’

Something’s wrong about this. Joker wishes Bats would get over his hard-on and come lend
him a hand already. He doesn’t like the feeling this woman gives him, not one little bit.

‘What can I say?’ She lifts her arms, indicating the plants blooming all around her. Her pollen
is thick in the air. ‘I like to make an entrance.’

The redhead smirks, a sinister curl of her green mouth.

‘If there’s anything you want to tell him, I’d do it now. He won’t be able to hear you for very
much longer.’

Joker glances behind him. Batman still hasn’t got back up. His stomach drops lower than he’s
ever felt as he realises there’s a reason other than embarrassment keeping Bats out of this
fight.

No deaths, that’s their rule, but Batman’s breaths are coming too slow and too far apart. His
jugular vein is leaping grey against his skin. It’s almost the same colour as the cowl.
Inside? Joker feels like his timer is seconds away from zero. It’s bubbling and spitting inside
him with promise, his darker nature turning subatomic with anger. She should know better.

Every last costumed freak in Gotham should know better.

Batman is taken.

‘I’ll say it nicely one more time, and then I’m not asking again. What—’ Joker steps forward,
lining his teeth into an animal snarl— ‘did you do to him?’

‘It’s not even half of what he deserves,’ she spits. ‘How many times, Batman? How many
times have you stood idly by and done nothing while this city poisons the soil? Nobody’s
ever taken a stand against you. Not until m—’

She shuts up to block Joker’s cards, three in a row slicing through the air for her face. A root
bursts up from nowhere to catch them up like a dartboard.

‘I was talking,’ she snarls, her eyes burning like coals.

‘You’re not talking, you’re orating! I mean, what is this, War and Peas?’

Joker yanks the pin from one of Batman’s gas grenades but a vine snares it from his hand
before he can throw it. A cage of vines twists and winding around it before the pressure can
explode. The muted smoke blast doesn’t seem to bother the woman at all.

Another vine whips out like lightning. It snares around Joker’s wrist. He slashes through it
with a card before it can trap him, but then another vine lashes around his ankles. There’s
another one at his elbow before he can cut free, and another, until he’s dragged from his feet
snarling by all her undulating plants.

All of this and she’s still talking.

‘I’m their voice, Batman! The plants, the flowers and the grass, the trees and the weeds and
the vines. I’m—’ the earth blooms with life all around her, the air thick with her perfume—
‘Ivy.’

Joker snorts.

‘A little obvious, don’t you think?’

The vines jerk his arms behind him like a spreader bar, thorns pressing against his wrists. He
grimaces in discomfort but then a vine is altogether too close to his mouth. He gnashes his
teeth at it.

‘Don’t you fucking da—’

The vine jabs right to the back of his mouth, gagging him with a wet retch. More wrap
around his head to keep it in deep. Joker gargles for breath, thrashing his shoulders as he
fights to get free. She’s still resolutely ignoring him.
‘I thought you were just stupid,’ she sneers at Batman. ‘Ignorant like the rest of them, just
looking the other way while the environment burns. And then you let this maniac burn down
that factory.’

She gestures to Joker, bound up by the vines.

‘He flooded the air with contaminants, he decimated everything living nearby, and you barely
tried to stop him! I mean, do you have any idea what that kind of chemical run-off can do?
What kind of damage it means for the quality of our air?’

Batman doesn’t answer. He’s not moving— hasn’t moved this entire time, crumpled up on
himself on the wet rooftop, and he almost looks like he’s—

Like he’s—

But he can’t be.

He just fucking can’t.

It’s against the rules.

No deaths, Batman said. Not mine.

Not even yours.

And something inside Joker just snaps.

He’s done fucking around.

Joker may not be able to bend the vines but he can bend himself, his shoulders crunching like
celery sticks when he dislocates them both at the same time. There’s nothing he can do about
the thorns: they rip his arms and thighs and mouth right open as he somersaults out of the
vines. But that’s fine. What’s more important is getting some distance between him and all of
those writhing plants.

‘Of course you don’t,’ Ivy sneers, still fucking talking. Joker cracks his shoulders back where
they belong with tandem snaps. ‘But you will soon. I’m going to make sure you—!’

She cuts off with a silent scream, buckling inward like she’s been stabbed. Joker rolls his
eyes.

‘Oh, come on.’ His voice comes out rough from where the vine had him gagged. ‘Don’t stop
now! You were so close to the end of your monologue!’

But then he sees those vines that were binding him.

They’re withering, smoking up and dying right before his eyes.

His blood is burning them like fire.

Joker looks at her and smiles, smiles, because now he knows why she really hates his
chemicals so badly. He has his own brand of herbicide, after all. It’s a part of him. It’s lived in
blood ever since he came back to life. He cracks his knuckles pointedly.

‘You really should work on your poker face, Poison Ivy.’

She rushes at him but now that he knows her secret, it’s too late. Joker tears his mouth open
further with his teeth and then he’s biting her plants everywhere he can reach, again and again
and again. She screams and recoils like it’s her own flesh he’s biting, her own skin he’s
wrenching open.

Everywhere his blood touches, the plants sizzle and die.

‘This isn’t over!’ Ivy screams through tears, retreating on a carpet of moving vines. Joker’s
face is sticky with plant sap and his own blood.

‘Next time, try growing some four-leaf clovers.’ He shouts it after her through cupped hands.
‘You’re going to fucking need them!’

He’s barely caught his breath before he’s dashing to Batman’s side, pulling the hero into his
lap. His heart sinks when he sees how the Bat’s lips have turned black from the poison. The
cowl is beeping out some kind of warning.

‘What are you—’

‘Listen to me,’ Joker interrupts. ‘She’s poisoned you, Bats. With something bad, from the
sounds of it. But there’s a poison in me that will beat it every time. And it’s one your body
already knows how to target, because you breathed it in the night we met. Do you see what
I’m saying?’

Batman grimaces, but still nods.

‘Do it.’

‘I won’t lie to you, darling,’ Joker warns him, taking out one of his cards. ‘You’re going to
hate this.’

‘I know,’ Batman growls. ‘Just get it over with.’

Joker’s still bleeding from the vines. He could kiss that blood right onto Batman’s lips, but he
knows better than to try. Instead, he drags the sharp edge of a card down his palm. It doesn’t
hurt, not to him— just feels kind of warm.

Batman knows what’s coming. He tips his head back, opening his mouth to take it. He’s
trusting him so much. Joker wants to kiss him so badly, but now’s not the time.

It stings knowing that there’s never going to be a time.

For just a moment back there, Joker honestly believed that Batman wanted him. That he had
got hard for him, grinding on him all hot and dirty after one of their dates.
It took duress to make that happen.

The fact of that hurts worse than any broken bone or cut palm.

Joker balls his hand into a fist to make the blood well up. Then he brushes his other hand
over Batman’s arm, letting him know that he’s there.

‘I’m really sorry about this, Bats.’

And then Joker lets his blood drip.

Batman flinches. He holds his own against the taste for a moment before he convulses
upward away from Joker, vomiting hard over the side of the roof. It doesn’t stop for a long
while. Batman coughs and gasps between every gag, Joker rubbing his back for him while he
pukes it out.

‘It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.’

Joker watches carefully as Batman’s veins return to normal. Soon, the last of the black is
gone, and Joker feels his shoulders relax for the first time since Ivy attacked.

Once he’s puked as much as he’s going to, Batman hands Joker a bandage from his utility
belt. Joker takes it. He gratefully wraps his bleeding hand without a word, making a mental
note to deal with all of the other wounds later.

His shoulders are aching. He tries rolling them, but that just makes it worse. It makes him
thankful all over again for everything the vat gave him. If his shoulders are hurting now, he
can’t imagine how bad it would be if his body processed pain the way it did before he died.
He might not be able to move tomorrow from how far he pushed himself tonight. But then,
sometimes life just doesn’t offer another choice.

Batman still hasn’t said a word about what happened. It’s weirdly peaceful, but altogether too
quiet. Suddenly Joker can’t stand the silence.

‘You know,’ the clown says softly. ‘We never had any money, growing up. Mostly because
our old man always had to take care of hospital bills from beating on our ma.’

Batman is as silent as the grave beside him. Joker knows he’s hanging on every word. He
keeps talking, feeling the nervous energy dissipate as he tells the familiar story.

‘It meant we never had any weedkiller around the house.’ Joker picks pollen from his
trousers, flicking it away. ‘It seems like such a simple thing, doesn’t it? But the old man
would insist we couldn’t afford it, so it was up to us kids to take care of the weeds. And they
grew everywhere. All through the grass, there were these little purple tendrils. So Dad, he
would make us go outside and jump on the weeds around the house. To stamp them out, you
understand.’

Joker looks up to the sky. The way Gotham lights them up on a cold night like this, those
pollutant clouds almost look pretty.
‘He would make us jump for hours. And he used to have this mantra while we’d do it. He’d
say it every time, he’d say, kids.’ Joker looks over at him, then, giving Batman a stern look.
‘Only you can stamp out domestic violets.’

Joker giggles and Batman murmurs a quiet little for fuck’s sake. That’s all it takes for Joker’s
giggle to spiral into screaming, delirious laughter. It’s so good that it feels endless. It’s
barking out of him so loud and unstoppable that it makes his sides hurt by the time he gets his
breath back, wheezing on his back with tears all down his face.

‘Leave,’ Batman growls at him. ‘Now.’

‘Are you—’

‘Leave, I said.’

Joker can’t help feeling indignant. He huffs as he picks himself up, fastening the button on
his suit jacket. The joke couldn’t have been that bad. He’d expected a little gratitude, at the
least.

He leaves Batman like that, crumpled up and recovering on the cinema rooftop.
Disappointment and annoyance add a kick to Joker’s walk as he crosses his way through the
city to Red Hook. It turns his stride into more of a stalk.

He’s properly fucked off now. He’s fucked off about Batman’s lack of thanks and he’s fucked
off about the surveillance system making him screw around before he can get into Harley’s
building.

But most of all he’s fucked off about Poison fucking Ivy.

Harley opens the door in a long shirt and short-shorts. She goes from curious to thrilled as
soon as she recognises who it is, letting out a squeal and pulling Joker into a tight hug. She
doesn’t bother questioning how he found her apartment in all of Gotham. It’s like it’s her first
time seeing him in years.

‘Joker!’

‘Hi Harley.’ Joker hugs her in return, weary all the way through. ‘Words cannot begin to
describe the night I’ve just had.’
 facing my past ‘cause i’m up for the fight
Chapter Summary

Ivy’s sex pollen attack prompts some realisations in Bruce.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It takes Bruce three tries to pass the biometric locks in the garage, that’s how badly he’s
shaking. The third time their red light passes across his eyes, the system recognises him by
luck alone. It’s a relief when the computer accepts his handprint at the second stage. There’s
so much sweat pouring from him, he’d honestly expected it to bounce.

The turrets collapse back down into the bulkheads an instant before the heavy blast doors hiss
and part down the middle. Bruce tumbles through them as soon as there’s a wide enough gap,
nearly tripping over his own boots.

Nothing is coming naturally. Right now, he’s forcing himself to stay upright, forcing himself
to keep taking one step after the next toward the analysis annex on the supercomputer—

Forcing himself not to acknowledge the erection demanding attention between his legs.

He can’t believe it still hasn’t gone down. Whatever Poison Ivy is packing in that pollen, it’s
scarily potent. It has to be over an hour now since it first hit his lungs, rocketing him into
hardness against Joker’s thigh. These thoughts aren’t helping the problem any—memories of
how good it felt to be that turned on while holding Joker down—how it broke something in
Bruce to feel Joker’s reciprocated arousal pressing against his stomach.

Bruce hadn’t even lost his erection through the fight between Joker and Ivy, for that matter.
He didn’t have a hope of willing it away with Joker right there in front of him, snared up in
throbbing green vines like shibari bondage. And when Ivy forced one of those tendrils right
to the back of Joker’s mouth?

The thought has Bruce grabbing an analysis needle from the medical drawer with a new sense
of urgency, ripping it free from the sterile packaging.

‘Analysis,’ he grunts as he pricks his finger and inserts the sample. ‘Poisons, toxins.
Anything that can cause—’

That’s where he falters. He can’t make himself admit that he’s stupidly, outrageously turned
on, even if it’s just to his own fucking supercomputer.

‘Redefine,’ Bruce amends. ‘Any foreign contaminant.’

‘Scan underway,’ the computer replies, then: ‘Scan complete. Result: match detected.
Contaminant is a strain of Vanguerieae pollen native to West Africa. Flora is operating as a
class five phosphodiesterase inhibitor.’

Bruce recognises the term after the first few syllables, grimacing as he summarises it in one
word.

‘Viagra.’

‘Comparison: accurate. Recommendation: oral antiandrogens and rehydration.’

The supercomputer cheerily pops open a drawer containing a dose of pills and a chilled bottle
of spring water. Bruce pops the pills into his mouth and chases them with half of the bottle in
one go, swallowing again and again in heavy gulps.

‘Neurological impact?’ he gasps, wiping water from his mouth with the back of one hand.

‘Calculating: negative. Compound detected is solely affecting reproductive system. Altered

cognisance may be related to psychiatric distress. Recommendation: try to relax.’

‘Thanks,’ Bruce replies drily. That nuance is lost entirely on the computer’s voice recognition
software.

‘You are welcome.’

It’s not the answer he wanted to hear, but he knows it’s true as soon as he hears it. Maybe
he’d known before he’d even asked the question. Sure, Bruce can blame the pollen just fine
for whatever’s happening between his legs. But there’s no matching excuse for what’s
happening between his ears. The dirty desire turning him stupid, the way he’s lusting over
Joker like a fucking degenerate— that’s him. That’s all, totally and only him.

That revelation leaves his head spinning, completely dumbfounded. He’s attracted to Joker?
Since when? And God, why did it have to be him?

And he’s always … noticed. Joker’s good-looking, that’s just an objective fact. And his
physical attributes just so happen to line up precisely with Bruce’s tastes. Joker’s small and
dangerous, captivatingly mysterious and devastatingly forward with his affections.

All the pollen did was take off the blinders, making it impossible to ignore the truth.
Somehow Bruce doesn’t think it would have made much of a difference if he’d never
breathed it in. Even stone cold sober, he’d have still felt some type of way about Joker in that
state. The clown has never looked so sexy as he did right then: dangerous and out for
revenge, undeniably unhinged.

The thoughts come flooding back like they’ve been given permission. Bruce had wanted to
eat Joker alive. The only reason he didn’t beg to fuck him then and there was because he was
actively dying. The pollen’s lethal side effects had the whole world greying out as his
heartrate crept toward flatlining, and still, still, he’d only had eyes for Joker.
The moment Joker had him back on an even keel and Bruce no longer had that excuse to hide
behind? That’s when it started taking everything in him—everything—not to give himself
over to the arousal overriding his common sense. He’s counting his lucky stars that Joker
didn’t notice his inner struggle. The clown was too busy telling his garbage joke about
domestic violence or whatever to clock that, not even five feet away from him, the Dark
Knight was hard enough to cut diamonds.

It left Bruce without a choice. He could either tell Joker to leave, no hesitation or explanation
—

—or he could rip his clothes off right there on the rooftop.

It’s not like Joker would have complained, either; not based on how readily he’d let Batman
grind on him in the minutes before.

I’m into this, Joker had choked out, the understatement of the century. His pupils were blown
wide with desire, looking up at his Bat like there was nothing else worth seeing. I’m really
into this.

God. God, that was hot. Bruce had been grinding on Joker through their costumes and Joker
had just taken it, touching his shoulders shyly as if it wasn’t clearly making him hard, too. He
had no way of hiding it with the two of them jammed together like that.

Bruce had wanted them to rut on each other just like that. Fuck, he hadn’t just wanted to
come for his own sake. He’d wanted to watch Joker get there, too—see how his brow would
pinch—how he’d cry out from the sweet shock of release white-screening his brain.

It doesn’t take too much longer for the medicine to kick in, though Bruce suspects his train of
thought isn’t helping any. He tips his head back and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
It’s a relief to finally be flaccid after so long on the knife’s edge of arousal. It takes the heat
out of his desire, giving it more of a clinical feel.

And yet …

He analyses a blood sample again, then a third time just to be certain that there’s nothing
lingering in his system. Even then, he doses himself with broad spectrum antivirals and
splashes icy water on his face.

None of it gets those thoughts out of his head.

None of it stops him thinking about something he never knew he wanted so badly.

There’s no use denying it when it’s right in front of him like this. Even when the pollen is
clear from his immune system altogether, even when he’s as limp as he’s ever been, it doesn’t
matter.

Bruce still wants to fuck Joker.

And he wants it bad.

It’s almost funny. The hottest part of the whole show wasn’t even the vines, though that’s a
close second. Instead, it was that moment when Joker got free and effortlessly turned the
tables on Poison Ivy. That half-minute where Joker realised the advantage he had—the innate
power living in Joker’s very biology—fuck, he’s a turn-on. How could he not be?

The way he puts his teeth to work like that, sharp enough to rend metal in half, should have
Bruce terrified. But it’s very hard to keep that in mind when Joker only ever deploys his true
strength for one reason, and it’s never to hurt him.

It’s to defend him.

That’s just it. He could take him apart without even trying, but Joker’s never going to. He
worships Batman like they’re lovers already, like they’ve been lovers all along.

It would be so fucking easy to make that vision a reality one of these nights.

Nope. Nope nope nope. It’s not happening, and Bruce is glad of the antiandrogens in his
system manually keeping him from getting hard all over again at the thought. It doesn’t
matter how much he wants it. He can’t afford to let it happen, no matter what. No matter how
much his body is screaming out for it. No matter how lifechanging he’s confident Joker
would be between the sheets.

Bruce shakes his head in disappointment with himself as he peels out of the Batsuit and packs
up his gear. It’s an early finish by his standards: nearly 4.00 am. With any luck, he’ll be able
to get some decent sleep in before his schedule starts tomorrow. Assuming he can stop being
distantly horny long enough to actually fall under.

It’s frustrating, of course. But Bruce can handle it. It’s not the first time he’s wanted to fuck
one of the rogues, after all, an honour he’s sure Catwoman guards just as jealously as her
stolen jewels. But he can put that to the side. He’s spent more than half his life at this point
learning how to overrule his biology, commanding his body to overcome ordinary limits like
pain and fatigue. Physical attraction is just another inconvenience to add to the list.

Because that’s all this is, after all. It’s purely biological. It’s a physical response Bruce didn’t
choose or want. But with enough practice, he can temper it. He can iron it out of himself just
like he would any other lack of discipline, until he’s back to being the emotionless apex
predator he designed himself to be.

Because it’s not like he actually has feelings for Joker, thank God. That would be ridiculous.
Worse, it would be unforgiveable, a breach of his most important code. Batman works alone
—he has to, because Bruce is fucking poison, and Joker—

Joker.

Bruce hangs his head as he brushes his teeth alone at the double vanity in his ensuite, all of
those complicated feelings swirling around inside of him.

Joker, fast-moving, fun-loving and unstable— Joker, who patiently waited for Bruce to finish
trying to shatter all the bones in his arm that night just so he could dry his eyes. Maybe he’ll
 never figure him out. Maybe he’s not supposed to. But in all of his mysteries, there’s at least
one fact about the Clown Prince of Crime that Bruce knows beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Whoever he is, whatever he does—

Joker deserves so much better than the likes of Bruce Wayne.

Chapter End Notes

HIII just one more new still alive chapter to go after this one, between you and me it is a
banger. it's chapter 4, so back toward the start again, and it's set in a creepy empty
subway station/train tunnel oOoooo

I adore Bruce in this genuinely.. god he's just so fucking mean to himself inside his own
head like

his self-hatred & survivor's guilt just devastates me, and how tellingly they surface
whenever there's even the barest notion of craving intimacy
 somebody turned on the light
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It takes a weight off Joker’s shoulders just seeing Harley light up at the sight of him. There’s
not a single ounce of worry or fear in her expression. Just like at Arkham, she takes his
presence completely in-stride. It’s as if Gotham’s most wanted didn’t just track her to her
doorstep using only the handful of clues she gave in their first conversation.

Her face only falls when she glances behind herself with a grimace.

‘Shit, my place is a total mess.’ Still, she opens the door the rest of the way for him. ‘Come
in, come in! Hey, do you know what time it is? My phone’s dead and the power just went
out.’

‘Sorry, that was me. It’s—’ Joker checks his phone— ‘nearly four.’

He slips it into his back pocket again, giving her a sheepish smile.

‘Your building has cameras,’ he explains. ‘I had to get a little creative to get in unseen. Your
lights should be back on in a minute.’

He steps warily into her long hallway, letting the door click shut behind him. It’s very dark
inside. Her apartment is blocked in on all sides by neighbours, only facing the street at the
very back. There’s next to no opportunities for natural light. Joker gets his acid eyes after a
moment, though, adjusting to the gloom. There’s an open-plan kitchen on his right with a
sunken lounge just behind it.

Then the floor makes a weird noise beneath him. He tests it out, shifting his weight from foot
to foot. Flooding damage has made the linoleum peel up and bow.

‘Whoa, girl buddy. You live like this?’

‘Tell no-one,’ Harley groans, kicking a pair of underwear under the couch before she skips
into the kitchen. ‘Do you want ice-cream?’

‘Always.’

‘Then you get first pick. I’ve got cookies and cream, brownie core, or mint chocolate chip.’

‘Mint chocolate chip? That’s my favourite!’

‘Then it’s all yours, hon.’ She looks over at where he’s still hovering by the entryway, waving
him toward the lounge. ‘Sit, sit sit sit, tell me everything. How have you been? I’ve fucking
missed you!’
Joker draws his legs up under him on her leather couch. He takes a breath to answer but that’s
when the power returns, flooding her apartment with soft light. Harley’s flatscreen comes
back to life with a start-up chime.

‘Mm!’ Harley dashes over with two pints of ice-cream and a spoon in her mouth, jumping
onto the couch next to him. ‘Do you like Drag Race? I just started the new season. I’m ten
minutes in.’

She takes up the remote for the television, flipping through the app tiles before she finds the
right streaming service. Joker looks at her in amazement. She’s reacting to him with the same
easy acceptance she showed at Arkham. Their knees are touching like she’s known him all of
her life.

‘I love Drag Race,’ Joker admits. And I love how you make me feel safe to be myself.

They eat Ben and Jerry’s right out of the cartons, marathoning RuPaul’s Drag Race in the
background while Joker catches her up. He tells her about everything that’s happened with
Batman since she broke him out of Arkham, lingering especially on how they’d just been
finding a rhythm before Poison Ivy showed up and make Batman all stupid horny with her
pollen. Joker runs her through how he saved the Batman’s life with his blood. He tells her
about his really funny joke (she explains that he crossed a line and he concedes the point). He
even tells her that Bats didn’t even say thanks, ungrateful little thing that he is.

‘I mean, honestly,’ Joker huffs. ‘What do I even see in him?’

Harley shakes her head as she fishes around in her ice-cream for a chunk of cookie dough.
She hasn’t questioned that Joker’s crush is on Batman. Then again, Joker never exactly tried
to hide it. And it’s not like it would ever be anyone else.

‘Men ain’t shit, J.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ he sulks. ‘You have another fifty per cent of the population in your
dating pool.’

He goes to say something else before he gets distracted by the TV. RuPaul pulls a surprise
double-save, vetoing the elimination. Joker’s mouth falls open.

‘That’s the second double-save already, and we’re what, four episodes in?’

‘The bitch is going to give me an ulcer.’ Harley wags her spoon at the television. ‘I’ll even
name it after her. Oh hey, that reminds me. I was thinking about this before you showed up.’
She looks over at him, suddenly serious. ‘What would your drag persona be like?’

‘No different than I am right now.’ Joker sets down his mint chocolate chip, suddenly losing
his appetite. He sinks into the pillows and crosses his arms. ‘Batman might be able to do dual
identities, but I sure can’t.’

‘Get him out of your head, boo.’

Harley scoops one last spoon of ice-cream into her mouth, then sets her carton down next to
his, giving him a stern look.

‘If I made up a character to match you, what would she be like?’

‘You mean like the Family challenge?’ Joker blinks, processing it. ‘You match me already.
It’s just a matter of looking the part.’

Joker tries to imagine what Harley might look like if she’d gone into the vat, too. It’s a
sobering thought: he’s glad there’s no chance they’ll ever find out. All the same, it’s
interesting to wonder.

‘Do you have a sketchbook?’ he asks.

Harley hops up and wanders down the hallway, eventually tracking down a drawing pad from
her bedroom. She tosses it to him with some fine liners and dual-tipped markers.

‘You’re lucky,’ she says. ‘Most of my art stuff got ruined when Oz broke the water main.’

Joker cracks open the lid on the thinnest liner.

‘That’s your ex?’

‘Uh-huh. All my old mind-maps were under the hallway console.’ She jerks her head toward
it. It’s noticeably water-damaged at the base. ‘Bit stupid in hindsight keeping ‘em there, but it
wouldn’t have been a problem if he didn’t try to unclog the sink with five gallons of sodium
hydroxide.’

‘And he just … had that on-hand?’

‘He runs odd jobs for the mafia,’ Harley explains, waving him off dismissively. ‘Nevermind
that. The acid ate right through my pipes, because of course it did, that’s what acid does.’
Joker nods knowingly. ‘So water starts fountaining out of my bathroom cupboard, and what
does he do? He leaves! To go get help.’

‘Oh, honey.’ Joker glances up at her as he starts drawing his guiding lines. ‘There’s no help
for stupid.’

Harley snorts, then nods to the book.

‘You can draw?’

Joker grimaces, making a so-so gesture with one hand.

‘Not very well.’

The first thing he sketches out is a basic woman’s figure, thinking of the fashion sketches
some of the contestants do on Drag Race to plan their outfits. Harley looks over his shoulder.

‘Did you seriously do that first try? That’s fucking amazing.’

‘I’d be blushing if I could,’ Joker teases. ‘Alright! First question. Get comfy. Are we thinking
of this as an exaggeration of you, or a completely different character?’

Harley lays down on the couch. She rests her head on the armrest like they’re about to start a
therapy session, and Joker has to bite back a laugh at the thought.

‘A little of both,’ Harley answers. ‘I want her to be the best version of me. No pretending. No
putting up with any bullshit. The me I would be if I could get away with anything.’

Joker nods, making a quick note at the edge of the page.

‘What are your favourite colours?’

‘Black and red.’

‘Leather or lace?’

‘Leather! So much leather. Leather jacket, leather choker, leather thigh-highs— with heelys!
Ooh, and an optional lace tutu.’

‘I’m so into this, you have no idea. Are you more princess or punk?’

‘Both, boo. I’m the princess of punk.’

‘Very bisexual of you,’ Joker comments. Harley snickers. ‘Okay, so my thing is circus stuff.
Jokes, cards, balloon animals, everything in that arena. What’s yours?’

Harley studies the brick wall behind the kitchen.

‘Also clown stuff, but giving hyper-femme,’ she decides. ‘Like the magician’s assistant or the
tight-rope walker.’

‘Is she smart? You’re a doctor, after all.’

‘She’s smart, but she doesn’t want people to know. She lets them think she’s stupid so she can
use it against them later. I could even lean into my accent. And this part’s just an idea, but I
was thinking maybe she’s so ditzy she hasn’t figured out you’re gay, so she has this doomed
one-sided crush.’

‘That’s really funny.’

‘Right?! Like, she drags two dudes into your lair, both of ‘em beaten black and blue. This
huge smile on her face. And she’s like, Hey Puddin’, I heard these mooks talkin’ smack about
you an’ Batman bein’ fruity, but don’t worry! I shut them up for ya!’

‘Fruity,’ Joker giggles. ‘I love her already.’

He’s not lying, either. It just sounds right. It’s like he was always supposed to have a
counterpart, a partner in crime. Joker thinks back over everything Harley’s said so far.
‘So, she’s acting more brawn than brains?’

‘Yes!’ Harley practically yelps, sitting bolt upright. ‘Oh my God, yes. Can she have a huge,
fuck-off mallet? Like the strongman has for whacking the strength test, that kind of thing?’

‘One huge fuck-off mallet,’ Joker says slowly, sketching it in.

‘Can I see? Can I can I can I?’

‘Only if you measure your expectations. Remember, it’s just a sketch.’

Joker spins the sketchpad around, bracing himself for a negative reaction.

He’s taken a few liberties, drawing her as a black and red two-tone bombshell, a red
monochrome dynamo in pig tails and roller-skating gear. Her hair is half ginger, half Gothic
black to match the theme. All over her costume he’s added tiny diamonds and skulls,
matching his own patterns of choice.

Harley’s jaw falls open in wonder. Her eyes sparkle in the television’s blue light.

‘She’s perfect.’

‘She needs a name,’ Joker points out, secretly thrilled.

‘I was thinking Jester,’ Harley says. ‘That way we’re The Joker and The Jester.’

Joker hesitates, looking at the drawing again.

‘I think you deserve something more unique. You shouldn’t just live in my shadow, you
know?’

‘Mm, good point. Hey Google.’ Her phone pings where it’s charging on the table, listening
in. ‘Look up synonyms for jester.’

Harley snatches it up after a moment and starts reading out the results.

‘Fool, clown, buffoon— harlequin,’ she gasps. ‘Joker, harlequin! Harley Quinn. It’s basically
my fucking name!’

He claps his hands, giggling madly.

‘You didn’t choose the clown life. The clown life chose you!’

Harley stops dead.

‘I just had an idea. Are you tired yet?’

‘After this?’ Joker snorts, eagerly going back to the sketch. ‘Fuck, no. This is better than
speed.’
‘Good, because we’re doing makeovers. I’m gonna grab you a towel and chase you into the
shower—you look like you need it—then once you’re dry, I’m doing your makeup. And then
I’ll do mine to match.’ She beams at him. ‘That okay?’

Harley Quinn, she’s beyond all belief. She’s a gift from God.

It’s better than okay. It sounds like the most human offering Joker’s heard in his entire.

‘Let’s do it,’ Joker grins, no need to hide any of his teeth. ‘I’m down to clown, girl buddy.’

Harley outright shrieks at the pun, laughing like a maniac before she races off. She comes
back with a fluffy magenta bath sheet and a spare set of pyjamas. Joker damn near loses his
mind when he sees that they’re patterned with the Bat symbol.

He hadn’t realised how much grime he’d collected on his skin until the proof of it comes off
under Harley’s shower spray. Some of it is from tumbling around on the rooftops. Some of it
is the sap residue and pollen he didn’t manage to dust off before coming here. (He notes in
the back of mind that it hasn’t affected Harley second-hand; it must have a half-life when Ivy
isn’t nearby.)

Harley’s shampoo smells sweet. It’s almost something he’d buy for himself, but it’s just
slightly off-theme for him. He and Harley are almost the same, but he’s starting to realise that
sweetness on Harley is something effortless, like her honey and mango scented soap. He’s
always preferred his sweet things more artificial than that. Whether it’s soap or shampoo or
candy, Joker likes the kind of explosive colours and flavours that can only be brewed in a lab.

Joker shuts off the water and towels himself dry before he pulls on his underwear, socks and
shorts.

It’s when he’s pulling the clean shirt down over his head that he accidentally catches his
reflection.

The thing looking back at him from the mirror cabinet is white and ghoulish. Its green hair is
dripping, its mouth is like a cordon of arrowheads.

Joker gets a front row seat to how his own smile turns dejected and hurt.

Ever since he went into the chemicals, he’s had conflicting feelings about his body. He loves
his flaring green hair. In a way, he can even appreciate the shine of his eerie white skin. But
there’s things that he doesn’t like, too. The bags under his eyes, for one. But most of all his
teeth.

He hates how the chemicals transfigured his neat, functional teeth into something terrible.
There’s a special kind of hell to how he has to concentrate on every mouthful when he eats. If
he doesn’t, he rips his cheeks open every time. The proof of how dangerous they are is
written all over his scarred mouth.

Joker looks over those cuts now, the little broken lines all around his lips. They’re a testament
to what he can’t help but do.
Sometimes when he looks at his reflection, all he sees is a monster.

‘Hey hon, you ready yet?’

Joker’s heartrate goes from zero to one hundred. He reacts like a gun went off, smashing his
palm to the door to hold it closed.

‘Don’t come in!’

Then he realises what he just did and steps back in horror.

‘J? What’s going on?’

‘Sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. I’m just …’

Just what? Just a freak, just a monster? Or just now realising her friendship is too good for
him? People who look like he does, they don’t get to have friends. They don’t get to have
their love returned.

Joker swallows, deciding on honesty.

‘I’m having some self-image issues.’

Harley takes a moment.

‘You decent?’

Joker nods before he remembers that she can’t see him.

‘Decent, yes. But very ugly.’

‘I’m gonna come in, alright?’

‘Okay.’

She slips in through the door. Joker doesn’t dare look at her, locking his attention down to the
tiles instead. He’s terrified of what he’ll find if he looks—of seeing her face finally turn with
fear—of her realising she’s let a monster into her apartment, then chasing him back out again
with a broom.

He rubs the side of one arm.

‘I thought the white was make-up,’ Harley says.

‘It’s not,’ Joker says to the tiles. ‘I know I’m hard to look at.’

She gets really close to him, right up against his face. It forces him to make eye-contact
unless he wants to make it even weirder. When he does, there’s no hatred to be found. There’s
no revulsion in her determined stare. There’s just curiosity, interest, and a tiny bit of laughter
in her eyes.
She’s staring at him and he’s so bewildered by that, or maybe just by her: this girl who makes
no sense. This girl who’s matching him every step of the way.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking,’ Harley explains. ‘And you know? It’s not hard at all.’

‘Then you’re not looking at the right places. Look at my teeth, Harley. My scars.’

The look Harley gives him is somewhere between sad and disappointed.

‘Let me show you something.’

She takes a face wipe and uses it to clear off her makeup. It takes a few goes, but when she’s
done, it leaves her flushed in the face and spotty. Her eyelashes are smaller without it, her lips
drier and raw.

‘See? I’m not perfect either.’

‘But you still look human.’

‘Eh, human is overrated. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about LGBT subcultures reclaiming
stereotypes around inhumanity.’

‘Um?’

‘Ha! Sorry, sorry. Let me try again. C’mon, this way. My make-up is in my room.’

Joker follows her down the hall. Her bedroom is next door to the bathroom, right behind the
sunken lounge, and he sits down gingerly on her bed while Harley collects up her make-up
kits.

It’s a homey space. She’s strung fairy lights along the walls around her plush bed. She’s using
those instead of the ceiling lights, giving everything a softer touch. It’s the only real source of
light. The backmost wall faces the street, but the balcony window is blocked off by a
bookcase. Its shelves are filled with an eclectic mix of manga, psychiatry textbooks, and
Mills & Boon paperbacks.

Next to it is an oversized desk holding up an impressive gaming PC. Harley has dual curved
monitors and a litany of streaming equipment—telescoping webcam, boom microphone—
even a tripod-mounted LED ring light.

Harley spins the selfie light around to face him at the edge of the bed. Then her eyes flicker
over his face and hands, making a rapid assessment. The first thing she does is line up her
nail polish collection on the pastel pink duvet.

‘You know how sometimes people treat us like we’re aliens? Or robots, or monsters?’

‘All too well,’ Joker says, thinking about his teeth.

‘Right. So some people take that and say, well, good. I’d rather be an alien or a robot or a
monster than be like you.’

Harley takes his hands, nudging his fingers apart before she starts painting the nails a bright
neon green.

‘Because fuck you,’ she continues. ‘Humans are garbage and I don’t wanna be in your shitty
club.’

Joker blinks. He’d never thought of it that way before.

‘Here, take a look while I do this.’ Harley Googles something on her phone, then passes it to
him. ‘And take off your socks, boo. I’m doing your toes next.’

Joker reads through some of the summaries while Harley paints his nails. It might not be for
him, but he likes that he’s not the only one who’s felt this way. It’s proof that there are other
people who have been where he is now, to the point where they’re even building new
language to describe the feeling. When he scrolls further, he even gets to a handful of flags
for communities who rally around the idea.

One of them sticks out to him. Its stripes are amethyst and lavender, then lime and olive.
They’re separated by a white horizontal barrier and black circle in the middle. Purple and
green.

His colours.

After his nails are done, Harley puts white foundation down over his face and neck. He can
feel how impressive the coverage is. The only white foundation he could find on his own
took half a bottle to get the same impact as foundations in actual skin shades. But Harley’s
make-up is name brand, and it makes all the difference.

She gives him purple eye-shadow and mascara to match his suits, then red lipstick and lip
gloss to cover the scars on his lips. She even fishes a tin of men’s hair gel out from her
bedside table.

‘Recycling from your ex?’

‘Yours now, hon,’ she mutters, rolling her eyes. ‘You’ll use a normal amount. Oz always
looked like he’d dipped his whole head in.’

Joker gags at the mental image. He hopes he never has to meet this guy. But then, maybe he
could engineer it so that he has an excuse to really rattle him. Maybe he could tie him up and
throw him into a pool of robot piranhas, make it into some kind of twisted payback for him
flooding Harley’s hallway. She’s such a ray of sunshine that Joker can’t help but feel
protective over her, especially when she’s been so protective over him with no good reason to
be.

‘Hey,’ Joker says softly. ‘Thank you, monkeyface.’

The easy pet-name has Harley breaking into a wild grin.

They keep talking, chatting about everything and nothing. They even gossip a little about the
doctors at Arkham while Harley works. She snips at his fringe with a pair of hair scissors.
There’s no need for her to ask permission, and he has no reason to resist.

Finally, she sets down the scissors and the gel.

‘I’m done,’ she announces. ‘You ready?’

She spins the make-up mirror in her hand but doesn’t show him yet, waiting for permission.
Joker swallows.

‘I’m nervous,’ he admits.

How could he not be? What if, despite all of Harley’s best efforts, there’s nothing that can be
done? What if it makes it worse somehow, makes him look even more ridiculous, like he’s
trying and failing to cover up all those chemical mistakes? He isn’t scared of much these
days, but he’s certainly afraid of that.

‘Hey.’ Harley lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Trust me. I got you.’

And she does.

He knows she does.

Joker gently takes the mirror from her hand. He takes a steadying breath before raising it to
his face.

The first thing he sees is his lips. The splash of bombshell red lipstick is the first thing
anyone would notice, a blast of colour completely hiding his scars. It makes his mouth look
so stark and inviting against his powder white skin.

The white foundation hasn’t changed his colour, either. It’s just highlighted it, streamlining
the bone structure of his cheeks and nose. Harley’s even colour-corrected the bags under his
eyes, replacing the dark circles with royal purple eyeshadow over the lids. She’s outlined his
waterline with nuclear green, and his hair is neat now, too. It’s all slicked down like he just
stepped out of the rain.

In a word? Harley made him cute. She took him from feral clown to handsome ringleader in
one fell swoop.

‘Harley,’ Joker gasps, then immediately runs out of breath. ‘You … Harley.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I love you.’ It’s her ecstatic reaction that makes him realise what he said. Joker’s face flares
with heat even though he physically can’t blush since the vat. ‘Love it. I mean I love it!’

Harley just giggles, delighted.

‘I love you, too.’

Even in the embarrassment, Joker can’t stop looking. He never thought that he could look this
good.

‘It’s all you,’ Harley insists. ‘You’re a fucking catch, J.’

Joker looks at her over the top of the mirror, hardly daring to hope.

‘Do you think Batman will notice?’

‘You throw on a nice shirt and a tie that matches your eyes? I think Batman will do a lot more
than notice.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, I don’t even know if he— you know. With guys.’

‘You want my professional opinion?’ Harley raises an eyebrow. ‘Joker, the man puts on a
mask and cape every night just to chase ya all over Gotham. Tonight, he met you at the
cinema and then humped your leg after. If he’s not at least bisexual, then I’m going to have to
re-evaluate my entire life.’

‘Well, when you put it that way …’

Joker’s starting to feel flustered, a little warm under the collar. And he has no idea how she
did it, but she even managed to make his nervous smile attractive. He catches it in the hand
mirror. With red lipstick framing them, his teeth look deliberate. For once, they’re working
for him rather than against him.

‘… maybe I do have a chance.’

Harley nods her encouragement. Still, hesitation pulls down the corners of her smile. Joker
distantly notices the cogs turning behind her eyes. It takes a moment before she seems to
commit, looking at him a little shyly.

‘Can I show you something?’

‘Of course.’

He’s so happy right now that Harley could show him the heat-death of the universe and he’d
still only be able to laugh. Instead, she shows him through to the spare room. It’s the only
space left in the apartment he hasn’t seen, excepting the balcony opposite the hall.

The spare room is an almost perfect square. It’s against the street-facing wall, too, and unlike
Harley’s room, the window isn’t blocked off. That tall wall-to-floor length window looks out
over the Red Hook rooftops.

They’re three floors up. It might give someone else vertigo, but never him. Even just looking
out through the window, he can’t help but start planning a running route. He maps in his mind
how he would spring from ledge to ledge before he’d start a run.

This room … to him, it would be a launchpad, a home base. It may be unfurnished but it has
potential. The oversized walk-in-robe, the streetlight filtering in through the shutters— Joker
can’t help but imagine what he would do with the room if he had the chance. He would get a
great big bed into that corner nook and turn it into a nest, drape it with pillows and blankets
in every shade of green. And then he would move all of his suits and spats into the walk-in-
robe until it would be jam packed to bursting with colour.

‘This is wonderful.’

It comes out awestruck. Her ex is a complete idiot for giving this up. Joker frowns.

‘Why isn’t this your room?’

‘Eh.’ Harley gives a big shrug. ‘Some of my Twitch followers are a little too good at playing
detective.’

‘What do you mean?’

Harley grimaces.

‘People can use the sunlight in a livestream background to figure out ya timezone.’ She
gestures vaguely at the wall. ‘It’s real hard to block out that window. Believe me, I tried.’

‘They’re that obsessed with you?’

Harley smirks like she knows she’s a fucking dish.

‘Can ya blame ‘em?’

Joker would kill for that— not literally, of course. But the attention-hungry part of him loves
the idea of people hunting for him. He’s so jealous imagining Harley’s sleuths using scraps of
information to glean a glimpse into who she is, right down to her location.

It’s kind of sick when it’s her. He can imagine what kind of incel sickos would be tuning in to
her streams. But if it was him they were watching—

Joker swallows at the fantasy, trying to calm his heartrate back down.

It’s Harley’s turn to avoid eye-contact now. She runs her fingernails nonchalantly along the
doorjamb like she’s testing it for damage.

‘If this is too soon, you just say so, alright?’ She glances at him through her eyelashes, biting
her lip to hide a nervous quiver. ‘But I could really use a new housemate.’

Joker’s jaw drops.

‘Are you asking me to move in with you?’

‘Only if you want to!’

Joker can’t believe it. He nips the inside of his lip to prove to himself that he’s not dreaming.
The situation is so surreal. They’re standing in an empty room, sure, but it’s filled with so
much promise and potential. He can see the ghosts of the future he could build here. He can
imagine the décor right down to the last detail.

It knocks Joker off his axis. His world is opening up, all because of something he’d entirely
ruled out.

He never imagined that he could make a friend.

‘Harley!’ Joker wraps her up in a hug, laughing like mad. She doesn’t hesitate to squeeze
back like she never wants to let go. ‘Of course I will!’

Two days later, when his shoulders have finally stopped aching enough for him to move,
Joker tracks down an address for a research fellow from Gotham University. He picks the
lock on her car to get to her lanyard. And to make sure his cover for the day doesn’t get
blown, he promises her that if she tries to leave her house before midnight, not only will he
know, but he will personally come straight back and juggle her children.

Next, he helps himself to her pale foundation and plum-tone coat. He even adds a short
brown wig and some reflective glasses from a costume shop. His feminine frame and narrow
shoulders make for a convincing disguise.

Joker spends the whole day in the Gotham University laboratories. He’s barely slept because
of the shoulder pain waking him every few hours, so he chains coffees as he brews an
antidote to Ivy’s poisons. Nobody looks at him twice. He blends right in among all the other
researchers carrying out their own experiments. He labels the final result weedkiller and
vaccinates Harley with it the first chance he gets. It’s protection: any night now, Ivy’s going
to show up again.

He’ll be ready for her this time.

That night, Joker puts a full case of the anti-venom in a black box with a yellow bow, then
scrawls a note in a clown-themed Hallmark card:

Hi Batsy!
I’m very sorry I made you puke :o( soOo I
made you these! they are Poison Ivy anti-venom.
take one any time she poisons you and by
the time they’re all gone, your system
will know how to shut her out on its own!! xoxo
Love from your number one bad guy! :o)
P.S. do you like me? ☐ Yes ☐ Yes

By the time Joker’s done, he’s running on fumes. His best guess is that he’s been awake for
forty consecutive hours at this point. It’s probably why he doesn’t manage to find Batman.
But he does find the Batmobile.

It’s parked down in an alley by the waterfront while Batman does whatever he does when
Joker’s not around. Joker hops up onto the boot and waits there, kicking his legs as he fiddles
with the bow on the box, holding back a yawn.

It’s half an hour later that Batman growls at him from the roof above.

‘Get off my car, Joker.’

‘Bats!’ Joker jumps down obediently, shoving the box under his arm so he can hold his hands
up in surrender. He makes a T-shape with his hands. ‘Time-out, okay? I’m not here to fight.’

Batman’s cape swishes as he jumps down, landing in a crouch. Joker tries not to find it hot
and fails miserably.

Harley did his make-up for him again tonight. He doesn’t miss the moment of surprise when
Batman sees. The eyes on the cowl whir, analysing the new flourishes to his appearance. It’s
better than any compliment vigilante could have said out loud.

‘Then what are you here for?’

‘To give you this!’

Joker shoves the box toward him, grinning with glee.

‘What is it?’ Batman growls. ‘A bomb?’

‘No!’

Joker shakes it a little to prove it’s safe. But Batman still makes no attempt to take it from
him, and Joker’s heart sinks. He sighs as he sets the box down next to one of the Batmobile’s
wheels.

‘Look, just— just open it and see for yourself. Or don’t. I can’t make you.’

Joker runs a hand through his hair, starting to leave. Maybe this whole idea was a mistake.

‘Joker, wait,’ Batman grunts. ‘I’ll open it. I owe you one for what you did the other night.’

Hope floods Joker like he was never sad to begin with.

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m—’ Batman grimaces, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I’m trying to say thank you.’

Joker flutters his eyelashes at him.

‘Yeeeah?’

‘Quit clowning around,’ Batman snorts.

Joker’s heart soars at the pun. His mouth turns dry as he fights to get his words out.

‘Can I—’ The clown flounders a little, waving a hand. ‘Can I watch you open it, please?’

Batman picks up the box, still tentative. But he doesn’t say no.

‘I’m seriously going to kick your ass if this is a joke.’

‘It’s not,’ Joker whines. ‘I really, really mean it this time!’

Batman opens the box with clear trepidation. Joker watches with bated breath as the hero
examines the seven vials in the case, utterly silent as he opens and reads the card. On the
front of it is a crying Pierrot holding a Get Well Soon banner.

‘I worked really hard on it,’ Joker says lamely, to fill the silence.

Batman lowers the card, looking again at the box’s contents.

‘You made these?’

Joker nods earnestly.

‘They’re safe, I’m sure of it. And there’s enough anti-emetics in them to make sure there are
no more side-effects, either.’

Joker’s expecting questions. He’s been planning for everything from How do you know
they’re safe? to Where did you engineer this? or even Have you tested these on anyone else
first? There are so many things that Batman could want to know, after all. But the question he
comes out with first isn’t one Joker had predicted at all.

‘Why are you helping me?’ Batman asks.

Joker just huffs.

‘Why wouldn’t I? You’re the reason I do what I do. Hell, you’re the reason I even have a
name.’

‘I get it,’ Batman growls. ‘I’m yours to defeat, is that it?’

If that’s the best I can get, Joker wants to say. But really, I just want you to make you smile.

‘Something like that,’ the clown says instead. ‘Put it this way, Bats: my nights would be
awfully lonely without you keeping them interesting. So I’m not about to let someone like Ivy
take you out of the picture.’

Mentioning Ivy seems to serve as a reminder.

‘When I got poisoned …’ Batman grimaces. ‘I lost control.’

It’s too close to an apology for Joker’s liking. He shoots the vigilante a crooked smile.
 ‘I still need to send her a gift basket,’ he prompts. ‘You’d better remember to take your
medicine next time, darling. Unless you’re keen for a repeat performance?’

And if Batman laughs it off like it’s just another joke, then that’s— that’s fine. It’s okay if the
thought of doing that again is laughable to him. Joker can live with that, can’t he? Their game
is enough.

They’ve made it this far, after all.

Chapter End Notes

get in bitch we’re doing makeovers. If you’ve been reading my works in release order
you’ll know by now that my joker goes on from here to take up OnlyFans; I’ve thought
about this a lot and the first thing he’s doing to that bedroom is installing a stripper pole,
no I’m not taking questions you’re either with me or you’re against me OF Joker truther
gang.
 i’m not afraid to open up my eyes
Chapter Summary

Ivy takes another shot at Batman, prompting Harley’s debut. Joker sees the Batcave for
the first time.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Joker’s been shadowing Poison Ivy for well over a week now, waiting for exactly this
moment: for her to spring a trap on Batman, completely confident Joker and his herbicide
blood are nowhere nearby.

It’s the fourth night in a row that Ivy’s taken a swing at the Dark Knight, Joker heading her
off at the pass each and every time. Thanks to him, she hasn’t been able to lay a vine
anywhere near the Batmobile, let alone on Batman himself. But tonight, Joker’s giving her a
chance.

Because tonight, he’s looking to make a statement.

Joker has mixed feelings, watching in secret from the sidelines as Ivy gets the upper hand on
the Bat, waiting for the right moment to announce his presence. The way the two of them
clash together is so violent. It makes him burn inside with jealousy. But it also shows him
how special his own dance with Batman is, and that makes Joker’s heart sing.

He can’t look away, watching every development intently. He even feels like he and Batman
make eye-contact at one point. It’s hard to know for sure through the cowl’s opaque lenses.

If he did see him, Batman doesn’t react. He goes right back to carving through Ivy’s plants
left and right with his batarangs, wielding one in each hand like twin sickles. He has the
upper hand until he tries to swing over to the next roof with his grappling gun.

Ivy bursts a mound of thorns through the brickwork. They grab the corded wire, yanking
Batman right out of the air like a marionette. Vines are quick to snare him up, covering every
inch of him from the neck down before he can get loose.

Batman grimaces, struggling ineffectually in her grip. Ivy walks to him on a carpet of vines.

‘You’re not so tough without your clown here to protect you,’ she taunts, radiating smugness.

Joker rolls his eyes as he settles in for the long haul. He can feel the monologue coming
already.
‘Funny thing about that,’ Batman growls.

It has Joker nearly leaping out of his skin. He knows a set-up when he hears one. He knew
Bats spotted him earlier, knew he couldn’t have imagined it! Joker turns to Harley and puts a
finger to his lips, gesturing for her to stay put. She gives him a nod. That’s all it takes for
Joker to start creeping along the edge of the roof, sneaking behind Ivy’s back.

‘Oh?’ Ivy’s audibly annoyed at Batman’s interruption. ‘And what would that be?’

Joker fixes his hair quickly and shoots Batman a thumbs up. As soon as he does, Batman
looks up at Ivy like that’s exactly what he’d been waiting for, like it’s a signal they’d
arranged far in advance.

‘You really should look behind you.’

Joker could melt. His Bat knows him so well, helping him make his dramatic entrance. He
watches with outright glee as Ivy stiffens, her green shoulders turning tense.

‘Joker.’

She bites it out even before she turns to face him. She’s practically shaking with anger when
she does, face flushed olive. Even her vines react to his presence. They writhe up behind her,
the fly-traps at their heads yawning open wide, spitting venom like cobras.

It could be his palm buzzers, but Joker feels electric. It’s like he’s sparking all over with a
static charge.

‘Say that again,’ Joker urges her. ‘But be meaner this time!’

‘Leave,’ Ivy seethes. ‘This doesn’t concern you.’

Joker snorts.

‘I think you mean leaf this doesn’t concern you. Are you even trying?’

‘Enough! You’re not the only villain in Gotham with a grudge against Batman.’

‘Then you go ahead and spread the word,’ Joker hisses. ’Go ahead. Tell every last rogue in
the gallery. Nobody lays a finger on Batman but me.’

Ivy roars as she sends her plants after him, and Joker howls with laughter, pulling twin
aerosol cans from under his vest. He spins in place when he lets them rip. Twin green-tinted
beams of his blood spray out over her vines, wilting them instantly. Everywhere his blood
touches sizzles and smokes. He doesn’t let up until both cans are empty.

Suddenly his world turns horizontal, Joker crashing to his back against the roof. There’s a
vine wrapped tight around his ankle. It must have snuck along the roof through the bodies of
its brothers.
Joker sits bolt upright and jams his palms against it hard. His buzzers crackle and spit,
leaving black handprints as he fries the vine with electricity.

‘I’m disappointed, Ivy!’ he shouts. ‘I didn’t take you for a one-trick peony.’

Ivy groans like he just stabbed her in the gut.

‘Stop talking.’

‘Why? I’m just pollen your leg!’

‘Shut up!’

Ivy stumbles backward away from him. It has Joker easing up. Seeing her recoil from his
puns is funny, but he has better plans for tonight.

‘Here’s the thing, Ivy,’ Joker says earnestly. ‘It’s not you I’m looking to spend my night with.
So I brought along a friend.’

She just frowns at him.

‘What are you even talking about?’

‘Oh Harley love,’ Joker calls, turning it into a song. ‘Would you please keep our dear Ivy
entertained for a minute?’

Harley drags her baseball bat along the ground behind her, making an eerie rattle as she
approaches in her skull-patterned leather boots. Her hair is pulled into pigtails: one ginger,
one darkest black. Her leather jacket is a Smylex original over her corseted red bodysuit.
She’s a vision in her white foundation—a red diamond at the side of her mouth like a beauty
spot—a black mask covering her eyes.

Harley makes her voice breathy.

‘Anything for you, Mr. J.’

‘You must be joking,’ Ivy moans.

Joker grins.

‘Every minute of my life!’

‘Joker,’ Batman growls. ‘You got a sidekick?’

‘I prefer the term sister act,’ Harley preens. ‘Because I’m a whole show all on my own, toots!
Name’s Harley. Harley Quinn.’

Ivy’s eyes narrow as she takes in the new threat. Menacing flowers start sprouting up all
around them both, sprouting through the building’s clay bricks. Harley clasps her hands at her
cheek, lifting a leg behind her.
‘Ooh, roses? For me?’

Then her demeanour turns on a dime. She raises her baseball bat like she’s winding up for a
home-run, face warping with pantomime anger.

‘Ya shouldn’t have.’

That’s all it takes for the two women to crash together like magnets.

As they spit curses and trade blows, Joker looks over Harley’s fighting form appreciatively.
She knew self-defence before he came into the picture. Joker still made her spar with him in
their lounge every day until he was confident she’d be safe in the field, though.

Harley smashes a fly-trap right in the head the first chance she gets. That blow bastes the
cement with sap. The plant’s teeth go flying across the rooftop as the bat snaps in half.

‘Oopsy daisy,’ Harley gasps, throwing the broken handle aside. ‘Did I hit too hard?’

Ivy howls with grief.

‘You’ll pay for that!’

‘Pay?’ Harley cackles like a hyena, unclipping the mallet from her back. ‘I don’t carry cash,
sugar!’

Joker’s so proud of her. Harley’s doing better than he ever imagined. He recognises his
acrobatic move-set in her fighting style but a lot of it is pure her, playful and blood-hungry
and entirely her own.

Satisfied now that she’s going to be alright without him for back-up, Joker’s all too happy to
leave the two women to their bout. He somersaults his way over to Batman’s side.

‘Hello, darling! Did you miss me?’

Joker starts calculating the weak points in Ivy’s vines. Batman just grunts, watching warily as
Joker takes out a sharpened playing card.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ the clown pouts. ‘You know I’m not going to hurt you.’

Her vines are too tough to cut through, but one prick of Joker’s finger and his playing card
melts through them like a hot knife through butter. Batman throws a swing the moment he’s
clear from the vines. Joker blocks with his forearm, quick to kick the hero in the shin so he
can jump backward while Batman’s hissing in pain.

‘So angry!’ Joker laughs. ‘Is that any way to thank me for the helping hand?’

Batman just growls.

‘A sidekick? Seriously?’
‘You’re jealous?’ Joker can’t believe his luck. ‘Don’t be. Harley’s not for you, darling. She’s
for Ivy. How else am I supposed to get you alone these days?’

Batman throws a punch that Joker darts under, jabbing him in the ribs on the way past.

‘Should’ve known you wouldn’t wait your turn,’ the hero grunts. ‘If anyone’s jealous here,
it’s you.’

But the corners of Batman’s mouth are tugged up even if he’s fighting not to let it show. Joker
giggles madly, lovestruck. They’re so back. They’re playing their roles, dancing their dance.
Both of them are locked forever in the stalemate of their game.

It’s the only thing Joker’s ever wanted.

Batman’s all over him like a rash now that Ivy’s occupied, just the way Joker likes it best.
When he lands a punch on Joker’s side, he pulls it at the last instant like he always does.
Even then Joker feels a shudder ripple down his spine. He can’t wait for it to bruise.

‘You’re not very convincing, Bats.’

Batman grabs him in a headlock and Joker bites him through the gauntlet for the trouble,
twirling out of his hold. The Dark Knight huffs.

‘Hold still and I’ll give you all the convincing you could want.’

Joker smacks him with a rubber chicken and then runs giggling behind the first piece of cover
he spots. He peeps out to blow a raspberry at him from behind the rooftop air-conditioning
unit.

‘Why don’t you make me?’

Batman must take it to heart: the next thing Joker knows, the Bat has him crushed up against
the unit. It rocks Joker right to his bones. Batman is pressed up against him so hard, just like
he was the other night. The only difference is that it’s vertical this time and there’s pollen
twisting Batman’s will.

He’s trapping Joker with his body all on his own this time, his hands pinning each of Joker’s
wrists.

‘At least buy me dinner first, darling,’ Joker murmurs, even though his body is crying out
with how much he wants this. Their mouths are so close together.

Kiss me, Joker thinks on a loop, the only thought in his head. Kiss me kiss me kiss me—

‘They’ll give you dinner at Arkham,’ Batman promises. ‘A different flavour every day, I
hear.’

And Joker just knows that he’s going for those fucking cuffs, even before he hears the chain
rattle. The clown brings his legs up in a rush. He uses the unit behind him as a springboard to
shove his heels into Batman’s stomach, driving him backward.
‘Tonight’s meatloaf Monday in the psych ward.’ Joker hurls a card when Batman tries to snag
him by the ankle. ‘I was hoping for something a little more romantic than that.’

He scrambles up out of cuffing range, climbing on top of the air-conditioning unit.

Batman shakes out his hand with a grimace. Joker blows him a kiss. For a brief moment he
thinks Bats is going to catch it, but then his eyes catch the glint of metal. Joker sends himself
hurtling over the other side of the unit. The batarang misses him by millimetres, shooting off
over the edge of the building.

From this side, Joker has a front row seat to Harley and Ivy’s smackdown. They’re evenly
matched. With Joker’s antidote coursing through Harley’s system, Ivy can’t take her down
with poison. It forces her to actually fight.

Joker warned Harley well in advance about all of Ivy’s tricks. He’s delighted to see that she
listened. Every time Ivy tries to snare her up in plants, Harley slips free with a slash of her
knife. Every time Harley swings her hammer, Ivy blocks with a wall of roots.

Joker sees the exact moment when Ivy shakes her head and begins a retreat. Harley whines,
noticing it too.

‘Aw! Ya leaving already, honey?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Ivy sneers. ‘I have a parting gift in mind.’

Joker’s up in a heartbeat, stalking toward them.

‘You can keep your gifts to yourself. I’d say tonight’s festivities are already wrapped up
nicely.’

Suddenly there’s a shadow at his side, landing next to him with a caped flutter.

‘For once, I agree with Joker,’ Batman growls. ‘You’re going nowhere, Ivy.’

Harley catches Joker’s eye and gives him a wink.

‘Gay for you,’ she mouths, making a graphic hand gesture.

Batman, thank God, doesn’t notice. His attention is locked on Ivy. A growl rattles out of his
voice modulator like a darker purr.

‘Surrender, Ivy. Don’t make me do this the hard way.’

‘Come on, then,’ Ivy taunts. ‘If you really think you can handle me.’

Harley starts winding up a swing.

‘I’ll handle ya, alright.’

‘Don’t,’ Joker barks. ‘It’s—’

But it’s too late. The crack of the bricks splitting around Ivy’s plants drowns him out, and
Batman and Harley both spring for the villainess at the same time before the plants explode,
filling the air with green spores.

Joker sighs when both of them start coughing. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

He’s not worried. He’s danced this dance before. After the third time Joker stopped to cure a
poisoned bystander, the cheeky flower must have noticed, because ever since then Ivy’s
started implementing a new strategy.

When the air clears enough to see, Ivy’s gone. Of course she is.

Harley drops her mallet to wave pollen from her face as she coughs. It takes her a second to
spot Joker through the clearing spores. She squints at him before she giggles and runs over,
falling on him in a clumsy approximation of a hug.

Ivy can’t affect Joker—he’s already been dosed by the worst toxin known to man—but she
can affect any other target just fine. There’s nothing he can do to reverse it, either, provided
Ivy makes sure the effects are non-lethal.

It seems like she’s chosen something extra creative tonight.

She’s stoned her targets out of their minds.

Harley’s eyes are dilated as she blinks slowly up at him.

‘Hey J, why didn’t ya tell me Ivy was so pretty?’

Joker blinks. The thought never crossed his mind. Ivy is pretty, but not in a way that does
anything for him. He’d much rather be looking at Batman.

‘Maybe I wanted it to be a surprise,’ Joker says, not wanting to be rude.

‘Ooh. You’re so thoughtful. That’s what I love about you, ya know. You’re just— you’re
really—’ Harley’s bloodshot eyes start filling with tears out of nowhere. ‘And I—’

‘Okay hon, let’s get you sitting down for a sec.’

Joker puts an arm around her waist, easing her to the ground.

‘Sure thing, roomie!’ She bursts out laughing as they sit down together, before she flops flat
on her back. ‘I’m havin’ so much fun with you.’

Joker bites back a grin.

‘Me too.’

Harley might be high as a kite, but he really does share the sentiment. Life is a lot more fun
with his two favourite people in the same place. He stands back up to look around for
Batman, trying to figure out where he’s got to. Luckily, the Dark Knight hasn’t gone far.
Batman’s standing in the middle of the rooftop, staring up into the night sky with his mouth
wide open.

‘Hey Bats,’ Joker calls hesitantly. ‘Whatcha doing over there?’

It breaks whatever reverie Batman was under. He looks over at Joker, the lenses blinking
slowly like he’s seeing him for the first time all night. That serene expression is so disarming.

Joker doesn’t realise Bats is moving until it’s too late. He swoops over in a rush to catch him
and Joker shrieks, but all Batman does is wrap his cape around them both.

And then he’s touching him— nowhere obscene, though Joker wouldn’t mind. He’s running
his hands up the arms of Joker’s purple suit reverently instead, an adorable scowl twisting his
mouth like he’s frustrated he can’t feel it through the gloves. Bats even brings a hand up to
his mouth so he can yank the gauntlet off with his teeth.

Joker smiles up at him, unbelievably endeared.

‘Is there something you want, darling?’

Batman nods, not even trying to deny it, before his hands are in Joker’s hair. He starts
combing through it from the roots to the ends.

It leaves Joker breathless. He’s so touch-starved that it’s turning his bones to spaghetti.
There’s no way he’d be able to fight Batman off like this, and he keeps waiting for the other
shoe to drop. Any second now, the Dark Knight is going to twist his hand in and use that grip
to take Joker down.

But the twist never comes.

Batman just keeps stroking his hair. His voice comes out in a low rumble.

‘It’s so soft.’

‘Easy there,’ Joker cautions, even though he’s exploding inside with joy. His darling is being
so gentle with him.

‘Oh my God, boo,’ Harley shouts. ‘We should get nuggets!’

‘I could totally go for nuggets right now,’ Batman growls.

Joker feels like he’s going to have an aneurysm from holding in his laughter. He forces
himself to be serious, resigning himself to the side-splitting knowledge that he’s going to
have to be the responsible one tonight. He wonders if Bats and Harley are going to remember
any of this in the morning.

‘Batsy love,’ Joker purrs, making his voice sweet as sugar. ‘Where have you parked the
Batmobile?’
Harley sleeps it off in the backseat of the Batmobile while Joker drives. She’s down for the
count: eating a twelve-pack of nuggets in one go will do that to a clown. Batman got himself
twice as many and scarfed through them in half the time. Joker just got himself a large
Mountain Dew to stay awake, sipping from it now and again as he drives.

It wigs him out that the Batmobile’s cupholder sticks out from the ceiling. Batman’s car is a
different kind of nightmare. It’s ridiculous how many buttons and switches there are on the
dashboard. Joker tried to turn on the headlamps earlier and accidentally fired a missile,
blowing a skip bin sky high. His next try turned out to be the switch controlling an imitation
police siren. It rang for a full minute before he found the different, unrelated switch to turn it
back off again.

He finally got it right on the third try, but now he can’t figure out how to get the fucking thing
back out of high-beams. Batman’s no help, either. He currently has his whole head shoved
out of the passenger side window like a particularly happy Doberman.

Other than those minor logistical issues with the controls, Joker’s doing pretty good for a
mumen driver. He’s not exactly staying between the lines, but at least he hasn’t crashed or ran
anybody over.

The GPS tells him to take the next left. Joker listens, immediately relieved when it turns out
to lead into an empty tunnel. Interesting. That must mean Batman’s little hidey-hole is
subterranean, doesn’t it?

Really though, Joker has no idea where this thing is taking him. Once the Batmobile detected
it wasn’t being driven by Batman, it clicked into a different mode. Now it’s forcing him to
drive in a specific path. The roads twist and twist again until his sense of direction is shot all
the way to hell. He tries checking Maps on his phone to brute force it but gets no luck.
There’s no signal. The whole route must be black-out protected.

Batman pulls his head back in, flipping the switch to wind the window up. Joker grimaces
once it’s closed, wishing he knew how to turn on the radio. It’s unbearably quiet without the
whistle of the wind.

Though it’s a little difficult to think about that once Batman reaches over to touch his sleeve.

‘I like your suits,’ he growls. ‘Have I ever told you that?’

Joker bites down a smile. Batman’s so cute like this, all touchy-feely and affectionate. It’s
adorable how his voice modulator keeps turning everything he says into a gravelly rasp.

‘I always knew you were a fan,’ Joker teases. He lays his hand over Batman’s hand for a
second before gently disconnecting his grip. ‘Hands off the merchandise though, darling.
Unless you want me to fold your car up like an accordion.’
Joker parks in the nondescript garage the Batmobile leads him to. He knows he’s got the right
place when he sees the other Batmobiles parked nearby. They’re all different models but
they’re all black as night and reinforced beyond belief. He recognises the Nightrider. The one
parked next to it is an SUV the same size as a military tank. The third one, Joker has no idea
what that is, but he suspects it might be able to fly.

Joker eases out of the driver’s seat then moves around to the passenger side door.

‘C’mon big guy,’ Joker grunts, undoing Batman’s seatbelt for him. ‘Let’s get you inside.’

It takes a second to get Batman’s arm around his shoulders. Joker lugs him over to the great
big metal door.

‘Your lair looks like a nuclear bunker,’ Joker points out with a frown. ‘Is there a key to this
thing, Bats?’

Batman groggily shoves a palm at the hidden door sensor then sticks an eye up to it as well,
nearly headbutting the thing. The biometrics ping and the doors slide open with a hiss. Joker
doesn’t even make it across the threshold before a gigantic turret starts targeting him right
between the eyes.

‘Um, darling?’ Joker prompts, alarmed. ‘A little help?’

Batman looks up groggily.

‘Huh? Oh. Security override code alpha seven.’

The turret powers down at the words. Joker lets out a relieved breath.

The first thing he realises is that the place is huge. The entrance they came in through leads to
a brief metal walkway before the floor transitions all at once into a rock cavern, dropping
away beneath them into a dark abyss. Joker looks around in wonder at all the gaps and
alcoves in the stone. He can hear the water echoing in the distance mixed in with countless
high-pitched shrieks.

Metal walkways and platforms spread out through the space like a web. They chart a safe
path through the gloom. There’s a supercomputer at the heart of everything, and when Joker
notices that its monitors have bat ears, he has to hold in a delighted scream.

Joker beelines for a couch on one of the nearby platforms, adjusting Batman’s arm over his
shoulders to keep him from slipping off.

‘Joker, this is th’ Batcave,’ Batman grunts, slurring his words. ‘Bact-cave, this’s Joker.’

Joker falters.

‘You actually call it the Batcave?’

Batman doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. Joker nearly bites through his own lip. He’s
so cute. It should be illegal.
‘Nearly there, buddy,’ Joker cheerleads. ‘Little further. Couple more steps.’ He eases Batman
down to the couch as gently as possible, no mean feat when the man is double his weight.
‘There you go, baby. You sleep it off, okay?’

Joker tries to move away but Batman won’t let him. In one gentle move, he yanks Joker
down to the couch with him, hugging him close.

Joker’s heart damn near stops beating. He can feel Batman’s breath at the back of his neck. It
makes his face heat right up, it makes his spine tingle, and it’s so unfair that it makes him
want to cry.

He can’t stay. It wouldn’t be right when Bats is under the influence like this.

‘Bats, c’mon,’ Joker whines, trying to wriggle free. ‘You’ll be so mad if I’m still here when
you wake up.’

Batman doesn’t let him go.

‘You’re my favourite.’

Joker forgets how to breathe.

‘I’m your…?’

Did I hear him wrong?

‘Out of all th’ villains,’ Batman growls. ‘You’re my favourite, ‘cause you get it.’

He doesn’t need to clarify: Joker knows exactly what he means. It’s their dance. They keep
their game balanced and it keeps Gotham from ending in flames, because it’s not supposed to
be life or death. Not for them.

‘Yeah.’ Joker swallows through his dry mouth. ‘I get it, darling.’

There’s something else under the surface. It’s something neither of them have a name for. It’s
an unknown quantity. It’s white-knuckle exhilarating, as fragile and tender as it is blisteringly
hostile. And it’s more passionate than anything Joker has ever known.

‘Hate you,’ Batman breathes against his neck.

‘Oh yeah?’ Joker can’t help but roll his eyes. It’s never been as simple as that. ‘If you hated
me, would you be cuddling me?’

‘No,’ Batman admits. ‘Do you want your lipstick back?’

‘My lipstick?’

‘Over there.’ He gestures vaguely at one of the platforms.

 Joker eases out from beneath his arm and walks in the general direction Batman pointed. His
purple heels clack against the metal lattice as he goes. He doesn’t even make it halfway there
before he falters—nearly trips right over the edge—because Joker knows what he’s looking at
the second he sees it.

There’s a corner of Batman’s lair dedicated entirely to him.

It steals Joker’s breath away. There are clippings of every article that’s ever been written
about him and his crimes. There are copies of the mugshots they took when he was admitted
into Arkham. Batman’s even scrawled little notes about the things Joker’s said in the middle
of their fights, the clues about himself Joker hadn’t even realised he’d been giving in the heat
of the moment. There’s some of his things, too: his playing cards, his cufflinks—

And the bombshell red lipstick the Arkham nurses confiscated from him.

Joker is so touched by it that he can’t help himself. He takes down one of the mugshots and
signs it in big loopy handwriting with one of Batman’s pens.

To my biggest fan, he writes, scattering it with love hearts.

Then he looks over at his Bat. He’s faceplanted into the couch cushions where Joker left him,
snoring softly already.

‘God I’m in love with you,’ Joker whispers. He kisses a mark in lipstick onto the photo,
leaving an echo of his mouth for his hero to find in the morning. ‘I’m so fucking in love with
you.’

Chapter End Notes

ahhhh I'm so happy this is finished!!! please let me know if you enjoyed it, I'm actually
really proud of how it turned out and I'd love to know about your favourite part! next up
on my agenda is harlivy so get keen for wlw
 but i’m still alive
Chapter Summary

Bruce pieces things together after greening out in the cave.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Waking up in the Batcave is disorienting enough, let alone waking up in a patch of his own
drool.

Bruce groans in protest of the headache throbbing behind his eyes. He feels like pure shit,
lethargic all over and fatigued to the bone. The bat colony are shrieking away from deeper in
the cave. They’ve never sounded so fucking loud.

Detaching himself from the couch is an effort in itself. Even the air feels heavy. The world
spins for a moment as he gingerly pulls himself upright, dragging his legs around so that
they’re hanging over the edge of the couch.

God. Bruce rubs his nose, trying to remedy the ache there from where he’d been faceplanted
into the couch. Apparently he slept in his mask. Scratch that: he slept in the whole goddamn
Batsuit.

‘What the hell happened last night?’ Bruce wonders out loud.

He cradles his head in his hands, trying to think. The brain fog is thick enough that it would
be easier to just go back to sleep. He knows from his college days, though: the urge to sleep it
off is a trap. Give in to it, and you can lose a whole day in the blink of an eye. And there’s no
telling how long he’s been asleep already.

The parts he can remember are vague at best. He blearily recalls something about fighting Ivy
and getting caught in her vines before Joker showed up. More than that, Bruce can remember
how gutted he was when he saw Joker with his little girlfriend, a jealous thing overtaking his
better judgment.

But for the life of him, he has no idea what came next.

He has no idea how he got home from that rooftop.

Ultimately, it’s hunger that has him braving his headache by getting up from the couch. He’s
fucking starving. It feels like there’s a black pit inside of him, like his stomach is caving in on
itself. He’s halfway down the walkway toward the elevator when Bruce stops dead in his
tracks, eyes zeroing in on the corner of the cave dedicated to Joker.
That pop of red wasn’t there yesterday.

It’s a signature on closer inspection, a curly initial J looping across Joker’s Arkham mugshot.
The photo is marked with a dynamite red kiss to match. It’s surrounded on every edge by
love hearts, the whole thing rendered in lipstick.

To my biggest fan, the message says. From your favourite rogue.

It doesn’t take him being the World’s Greatest Detective for Bruce to put the clues together
from there.

So that’s how I got home.

Still, it’s perplexing. Because it’s not as if Joker could have been inside the cave. There’d be
much more of a mess: the automatic cave defences would have ripped the clown to ribbons.

And by rights, Bruce should be furious. He should be striding straight to the supercomputer
to verify what time Joker dropped him off and in what condition. He should be confirming
that the clown hasn’t rigged a bomb into any of the tunnels outside.

But most importantly of all, he should be verifying that his secret identity is still intact—that
Joker didn’t look beneath the cowl—that Bruce isn’t about to step out of the cave only to find
his entire life irrevocably compromised.

Those are all of the things he should be doing.

But for whatever reason, Bruce just … doesn’t.

That’s the most shocking part of all. He’s not panicking. He’s barely even worried. Instead,
Bruce is looking down at the mugshot in his hand, unable to help the smile turning up the
corners of his mouth. It’s brazen, and it’s endearing—

And it’s so very, very Joker.

Bruce traces a thumb across the kiss Joker left him on the page, careful to keep the touch
light when he does. It’s perfect exactly the way it is. He doesn’t want to smudge it.

He just wants to wonder.

Then a new hunger pang lances through Bruce’s stomach and he knows it’s time to move on.
He returns the mugshot back to its pride of place in his rogue’s gallery. But before he turns
away, he takes in that message one more time.

To my biggest fan, Bruce reads, before murmuring the last part out loud.

‘From your favourite rogue.’

Bruce is still smiling. He can’t help it, because Joker’s a lot of things—shameless for one,
delusional for another—but he’s not wrong about that.
 He’s really not wrong about that at all.

Chapter End Notes

it's a short one SORRY but i hope u still pick up what I'm putting down here! it's meant
to parallel that first bruce chapter in this one where he's all aggro and stressed. now that
he's got to know him, he knows there's really nothing to be afraid of (IM crying)
 i don’t wanna just survive
Chapter Summary

Catwoman runs into Joker on the rooftop of Gotham Museum. He has a few questions
for her about her involvement with a certain bat-themed vigilante.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The keypad is the easiest part of their setup for Selina to bypass. It’s nothing for her to dust it
with black magnetic powder to bring the fingerprint residue to the surface, making it obvious
which buttons have been pressed and when. She compares that information with the footage
from her telescoping camera earlier that night, studying the motion of the security guard’s
hand. That’s all she needs. The keypad chimes on her very first try.

Next, she has to beat the voice biometric. It only kicks in when there’s unauthorised door
usage after hours. An owl hoots somewhere in the State Gardens behind her as the embedded
microphone in the black speaker waits for her input. Selina doesn’t miss a beat— just takes
out her phone and plays the prepared recording from the security guard’s last rounds.

‘Loading gate A, Whiskey-Bravo-Romeo-7-3-5,’ the recording says. The door locks

disengage a moment later.

Selina slips into the museum without a sound.

It’s been a while since she broke into something that wasn’t a pound or a kill-policy animal
shelter. She’s been trying to avoid drawing attention to herself since Carmine Falcone put a
six-figure bounty on her head. Nobody else is going to look out for her, after all, so it’s down
to her to keep herself safe.

She’s like the cats that way. They’re gorgeous animals, clever and independent and too often
let down by the cold human world around them. There’s no appeal to her in helping other
people. That’s on them: if she has to go it alone, so can they. But cats are different. It’s why
Selina can’t keep herself away from pounds and kill shelters, rescuing and rehoming every
cat she can before their time runs out on death row. She was dealt a rough hand, sure, but she
got to make her own choices.

Cats don’t have that kind of agency over their own lives.

The next obstacle in her way is the motion sensors, hidden in plain sight with lines of antique
paintings on either side. Their beams are invisible until she rolls a fog bomb down the middle
of the aisle. It reveals the red bars of the laser grid immediately, shimmering in place where
they pierce through the smoke.
Selina takes a moment to gauge the optimal path through them. Then she gets to work,
turning and twisting, cartwheeling her way between the lasers. She’s as practiced as any
acrobat— as balanced and lucky as a cat herself.

After that, it’s just a matter of stealthing her way around the windows. She’s careful to stay
out of view of the cameras, too, mindful of which ones she left online to avoid raising
suspicions.

That much is child’s play. It’s poking her head out in the first place that’s the risky part.
Selina wouldn’t be risking it in the first place if she didn’t have to, but the cats are the ones
who are going to pay the price for it if she doesn’t hurry her timeline along.

One of her foster carers had to rush a Burmese into emergency surgery after a bad reaction to
his arthritis medication. He’ll be 14 years old in July, though Selina knows he can make it to
16 easily with the right care. But when they’re seniors, everything at the vet feels like it turns
twice the price.

And she does have a job lined up in Amsterdam at the Rijksmuseum, but that’s not until next
year. She’s going to run her resources dry months before that at the rate she’s going, starting
with cash. What she needs more than anything else right now is a lead. It doesn’t have to be
big. It doesn’t even have to be newsworthy. All she needs is a nice, simple, mid-sized score
that she can pawn off to a dealer to eke out the last few months before Amsterdam.

Selina picks the lock to the curator’s office manually with her pins, then goes straight for the
desk. The computer’s still running. It saves her a few more seconds. She plugs her hard drive
straight into the system and immediately fires the codebreaker software. Characters race
across the screen as it starts testing hundreds of password combinations at a time. The
program pings with a match in under a minute.

The curator’s password is annie88.

Selina clicks her tongue even as she navigates through to the administration calendar. It’s not
like a more complicated passcode would have actually slowed her down, but it would have at
least made things more interesting.

The computer tower hums softly as Selina crouches down low. Her goggles gleam in the
monitor’s cold light. She pores through the schedule, assessing each entry as she goes.
Exhibitions, galas: her eyes narrow as she leans in close.

Gotham Museum is her second stop tonight. The first was City Hall, and it was a total bust.
She checked the whole lineup of upcoming events, all of them yet to be officially announced.
The only thing even remotely interesting in their lineup is a travelling showcase of love
letters from the Smithsonian, some written as early as 1582. But in the black market,
historical artefacts like that are functionally worthless. And even in the rare instances where
the right buyer takes an interest, pieces like that are far too easy for law enforcement to trace.

The GCPD are too incompetent to catch her when she breaks into pounds and shelters. They
can’t even manage it when she targets the local galleries, museums and jewellers. But the FBI
are a different breed. She would much rather go without that particular headache if she can
avoid it.

With nothing viable in the council channels, Selina had to move to plan B. It helps that
Gotham Museum is right across the road, part of the same complex as City Hall.

It should have been a half-hour job. A month ago, she could have been in and out of the
curator’s office in the clean light of day. A full fleet of security guards and a holiday season’s
worth of witnesses would have been none the wiser to her having ever set foot in the
building. But that was a month ago. Security is higher on the complex than it’s ever been
these days, thanks to that fucking clown.

Selina scoffs when she hits December in the calendar. There’s a charity benefit planned for
the first week of the month. They’re going to auction off donated artwork to raise funds for
Bright Futures, the local not-for-profit adoption agency that took over Gotham Orphanage
when it was shut down in the ’90s. The event doesn’t seem like anything at first— just
another get-together for rich idiots under the pretence of philanthropy.

And in December, Selina notes. Hoping to avoid a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past, are
we?

There’s an Excel spreadsheet hyperlinked into the calendar. It tracks their artwork register
and confirmed attendants. Selina opens it as an afterthought, expecting to move on as soon as
she confirms they have nothing there but bare bones.

Instead, she does a double take.

Her mouth falls open. She has to read the register a second time, then a third, before she
allows herself to believe it.

They have an O’Keeffe or two in their lineup from Oswald Cobblepot of all people, and a set
of impressionist oil paintings by Cassatt that catch her eye. But all of them pale in
comparison to the showstopper donated to them by Bruce Wayne.

It’s a fucking Rembrandt— The Wedding of Asenath, c. 1632-1635.

A smirk curls across Selina’s lips.

It’s perfect. It’s the most valuable piece on the register by far, and it’s finally going to be out
of Wayne Manor— away from Wayne’s small army of security guards and that sharpshooter
butler of his.

Selina studies the information a minute longer to memorise the details. Once she has it all
coded into her brain, she leaves the office exactly the way she found it.

Her exit route is through the curator’s window. It doesn’t matter to her one bit that she’s two
flights off the ground. It’s all the same to her. She hauls herself partway through the window,
sitting on the sill, then attaches her titanium climbing claws to her glove overlays and the toes
of her boots.
As soon as she activates the micro-thin retractable spikes in their external layer, the claws
adhere her by the hands and feet to the brick façade of the building. From there, it’s just a
matter of pulling herself up one step at a time.

Selina heads up rather than down. The muted sounds of the parkland behind her play second
fiddle to the tearing noise of her gloves sticking then coming off the wall again and again, a
fast rip each time like two pieces of velcro coming apart. It’s effortless, and it will be easier
this way to make her getaway across the rooftops.

She’s just about made it onto the rooftop when, like any good plan, something goes wrong.

‘Pspspsps,’ a high voice stage-whispers to her. ‘Heeere kitty kitty kitty …’

Skeletons have more pigment than Joker does. He’s sitting with his legs drawn over the edge
of the roof, his prima donna green hair slicked back in a greaser style. It’s especially jarring
against his spectral white skin. He’s wearing a formal Victorian tailcoat. It’s a deeper purple
—silky burgundy with black velvet lapels—and there are twin metal buttons all down the
front in a ringleader style.

It would be a thousand-dollar suit if it weren’t covered in graffiti. He’s half a painting himself
on top of Gotham Museum with her, phosphorescent neon paints splattered all over him. It’s
even on his front and his sleeves, Pollock patterns competing for space.

Because Gotham Museum is in the council complex. It’s next to City Hall and the Gotham
Library & Heritage Centre, right across the street from the Gotham Arts Centre. It used to be
the Gotham Performing Arts Centre. Then the city council rebranded to broaden the
building’s appeal, aiming to break into the theatre scene. The only problem with that is that
they didn’t realise the new acronym—“GAC”—would be like a summoning circle to
Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime.

Joker’s been vandalising the place like clockwork ever since. He spray-paints things like
MIDNIGHT GAC SHOWING and GAC ME IN THE GUSSY right over the entrance with
glow in the dark paint. He was at his worst when council first scrubbed it off. Joker crept
back in through all the new alarms and guards, then painted half an essay up there.

PAYING YOURSELVES $10K TO WASH GRAFFITI? AND THEY CALL ME THE JOKER!

It kept #GacAttack trending online for three weeks straight, but it also added fresh scrutiny to
council expenditure. Somehow Selina had thought that would actually be enough for Joker to
leave it alone.

She should have known better.

‘I thought you were busy with the Arts Centre,’ she says to him, stalling for time as she
weighs the pros and cons of shoving him over the edge.

It’s infuriating. She’s been seen, and not just that: she’s been seen by the loudest mouth in
Gotham. That could cost her everything. It could cost the cats everything.
She can’t afford to leave a loose end.

Joker just beams at her, kicking his feet.

‘I was!’ He points across the street to City Hall. ‘But then I spotted you creepy-crawling
around next door, and I made like a cat and got curious. What were you doing in there, kitty
girl?’

She takes a leaf out of Batman’s book and stonewalls him, silent like a killing floor. She
knows she cuts an intimidating picture. She’s wearing her poker face, her whip an implicit
threat on her hip, the reflective surfaces of her goggles betraying precisely none of her
intentions. Unfazed, Joker just leans in closer. His grin widens like he’s relishing the
challenge.

‘I was hoping the two of us could have a little chat.’

‘A chat,’ Selina sneers. ‘About what, exactly?’

The ears on her Catwoman costume twitch when their hearing sensors pick up distant noise.
Low conversation comes from below them in. Keys jingle on a guardsman’s belt. Leather
soles squeak on the polished marble floor as the guards make their rounds of the building.

‘You might want to keep your voice down,’ Joker warns. ‘That should be a whole lot easier if
you come have a sit with me, puss-puss.’

He gently pats the patch of roof beside him, watching her expectantly as she goes back and
forth on murdering him. She can’t kill him here. Joker’s sure got a set of lungs on him for
someone she shares a dress size with. His laughter carries right across the river on a night like
this, and so would his screams.

There’s no way he’d go down quietly. And even if he did, she’d still have to move the body.
That’s no easy thing with the entire council complex on red alert. Plus, if she missed even
one piece of evidence, then the culprit would be obvious. They’re still on museum property,
for God’s sake. Everything about the crime would scream Catwoman.

Selina chews the inside of her cheek. In the end, it’s her sense of caution that wins out.

But only barely.

She wants to do violent things to him even as she begrudgingly stalks over and sits down,
wordlessly settling out of view from the edge. Joker pouts but still shuffles back to join her. It
stops him from swinging his legs at least. But then he starts bouncing one instead, and Selina
huffs.

‘What do you want, clown?’

‘I told you already,’ Joker insists. ‘To shoot the breeze! Strike up a rapport!’

He goes to put an arm around her. She raises a hand to strike him, launching the claws from
her gloves. They glint in the moonlight. They’re an unspoken threat, every bit as sharp as his
teeth.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she sneers. ‘You’re covered in paint.’

Joker looks over himself, blinking in surprise at the state of his own gloves. Neon paint is
splattered there to match his suit. He pulls away from her with his palms up in surrender.

‘I guess I am!’ Joker shoots her a feral grin. ‘Sorry. It’s a hard job to do cleanly.’

‘For an amateur, maybe,’ Selina mutters, but he either doesn’t hear her or makes a point of
pretending not to. She pulls her claws back in even as Joker keeps prattling on without a care
in the world.

‘I’m really into graffiti lately. There’s a lot to love. It’s creative, and acrobatic if you go for
those really high places. I really want to tag Wayne Tower one day! I just need Wayne to give
me a reason.’

‘The man’s a billionaire,’ Selina grunts. ‘Isn’t that bad enough?’

Joker groans, throwing his head back.

‘I know. It makes me feel so conflicted, like I’m a bad queer.’

There’s no such thing as an ethical billionaire. When people try to imagine one, though, they
tend to point to Wayne. That’s always stuck in Selina’s teeth. Her enjoyment of finer things is
something she had to fight for with her own ingenuity and cunning. She didn’t get an
inheritance or any handouts.

She should hate Bruce. Sometimes, she even convinces herself that she does. But it never
lasts. Sooner or later, she remembers that boy in the alley— how he looked from her hiding
place on the fire escape, crying and begging his dead parents to wake up. In her weakest
moments, Selina just feels sorry for him.

It’s why she changed her mind about collecting blackmail on him on the Euralea. It’s why
she’d prefer it if Wayne was nowhere near the charity benefit in December when she steals
his painting.

And it’s why she’s suddenly seeing this chat with Joker in a new light.

There’s an opportunity here. Wayne has already given up his Rembrandt for auction— that
much is non-retractable, even if he’s forced to pull out of the event. If she can just manipulate
Joker into putting the pressure on, then she can force the billionaire back out of the public eye
for a spell.

Joker could take care of this problem for her.

‘If I tell you something, will it stay between us?’

‘We’re at the secret-sharing stage already?’ Joker gasps, clasping his hands like a schoolgirl
before he nods enthusiastically. ‘Sure! Do you want me to pinkie swear?’
He offers up his littlest finger. The nail is a neatly manicured nuclear green but there’s no
fingerprint where it should be. The white skin there is upsettingly smooth in its stead. Joker’s
eyes sparkle when he catches her looking.

‘What do you call a burglary with no fingerprints at the scene?’

A mental flash bursts into her imagination: Joker, laughing even as he bites down on a rag,
burning off his fingerprints with a blowtorch. It’s especially common in the mafia. A lot of
crooks do it, but Selina’s never had the constitution. She always changes her mind the instant
she smells her own sizzling skin.

‘A stainless steal,’ Joker cackles.

Joker’s missing fingerprints are too neat to have been burns. It’s like they were never there to
begin with. She wonders how he did it. Plastic surgery, maybe.

Maybe setting Joker after Wayne maybe isn’t the best idea after all.

Selina’s conviction wavers only for a moment before she re-commits. She shouldn’t care if
Wayne gets hurt. She’s been saving the information for a rainy day when she needs a quick
extortion ploy, and now that’s finally about to pay off. She doesn’t care.

She can’t afford to care.

‘He wouldn’t be a billionaire if his parents hadn’t got murdered,’ Selina says through
clenched teeth.

Joker makes a face.

‘I abhor political correctness as much as the next comedian, but I think you might be
punching down a little.’

‘I don’t mean from the inheritance,’ Selina huffs, rolling her eyes. It’s like talking to a
toddler. ‘I mean from the life insurance policies. The tandem ones. Do you know how
unlikely it was that they’d both be murdered at the same time, orphaning a minor?’

Joker goes quiet. His eyebrows pinch a little as he processes the information.

‘Okay,’ he says slowly. ‘How much was the payout?’

‘250 million,’ Selina replies.

‘You’re joking.’

‘Each.’

‘That’s half a billion dollars.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, he would have been loaded for life anyway,’ Selina says with a shrug.
‘But that policy meant the difference from him being in the one per cent, and him being in the
zero-one per cent.’

Joker stammers for something to say. At first, his mouth just hangs open. Then his lips close
in a bombshell red pout.

‘Now I just feel even more conflicted,’ the clown mutters, folding his arms.

‘I thought you might.’

It’s annoying that she can’t get a read on him. There’s nothing in his reaction to indicate
which way he’s going to swing. And Selina would never admit it, but his whole puppy-clown
act is throwing her off. She’s used to opponents far more serious than this—far more
aggressive—far less … placid.

It leaves her with no choice but to ask him directly.

‘Does that make it more or less likely that you’ll go after the Tower?’

‘I have no idea,’ Joker replies.

It’s instantaneous, it’s honest, and it’s fucking infuriating. Selina can’t believe she just blew
one of her best secrets for Joker to come out the other side indecisive, of all things.

But on the other hand, it’s hard to ignore the way her chest feels that little bit lighter for
saying it.

It’s nagged at her for years. Whenever Wayne starts catching a new wave of eco-criticism,
she knows she could use that information to change the conversation. That one bit of gossip
could deify or damn him, depending on the spin. It’s always been her burden and hers alone
—

—until tonight.

‘I think I’ll stew on it for a while,’ the clown decides, leaning back on his hands. ‘It’s not as
if I’m running out of candidates. I can always tag some other things in the meantime, like the
bridges in and out of town.’

Selina knows she shouldn’t take the bait, but curiosity gets the best of her.

‘What did the bridges ever do to you?’

‘It’s more like what they’re not doing. And what they’re not doing is changing people’s
minds before it’s too late … You should look up local suicide statistics, kitty. It’s sobering
stuff.’ Then Joker hesitates. ‘Oh, wait. Maybe don’t? I wouldn’t want you to go getting any
ideas. The copycat effect is a real thing, after all!’

‘What the fuck,’ Selina snaps. ‘Did you seriously just make a fucking suicide joke?’

‘Hey, put your claws away! I made a cat joke.’

Killing him tonight is starting to sound like a good idea again, complicating factors be
damned. Gotham couldn’t miss him that much, surely.

‘Catjoke,’ Joker says again, tapping his chin. ‘Hey, that would make a pretty good hashtag.
What do you say? Wanna take a picture with me? My fans will love it.’

Selina wrinkles her nose.

‘No thanks. I’ve seen your pictures. I’m not into that ahegao maid shit.’

‘It’s for my Twitter,’ Joker snickers. ‘Not my OnlyFans. My tongue will stay behind my
teeth, I promise. Just one picture?’ He flutters his eyelashes at her. ‘Pleeeease?’

It’s obvious that he’s not going to let it drop. And she’s still trying to figure out if she needs
to worry about him as a loose end.

There’s nothing particularly identifiable on the rooftop with them. It’s just another patch of
smoky brown sky, the same as any other. The cops could still check the location metadata
embedded in the photo, of course. But by then, she’ll be long gone.

What’s the harm?

‘One picture,’ Selina grants. ‘But you don’t get to post until tomorrow. I’m not getting caught
tonight because of your stalker fans.’

Joker lights up like a lightning strike. A manic grin spreads across his face as he scrambles
for his phone. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.

‘Cross my heart, kitty cat!’ He gets paint flecks all over his phone screen as he navigates to
the camera app, scooting in closer beside her. ‘Say fleas!’

Most people take two or three to start, then either pick the best one or start over from scratch.
Joker snaps exactly one picture then spins his phone around to show her. It’s cocky and
annoying, right until she sees the result.

It’s good.

Joker’s pressed close to her side like they’ve been friends for years, the streetlight shining on
his smile. She doesn’t even look like she’s being held hostage. She’s smirking more than
smiling but it’s still a flattering picture. He managed to make it funny, too: he’s doing bunny
ears over the top of her head. Matched with the cat ears already on her costume, it’s a hard
picture not to crack a smile at.

‘Cute,’ Selina admits. ‘It’s a good angle.’

‘I knew you were a woman of good taste.’ Joker peeks across at her through his eyelashes,
nowhere near as subtle as he thinks he’s being. ‘Why else would you be in love with
Batman?’
Selina gags before she can help it. It’s automatic— an emetic response. She’d rather gargle
poison than be cornered back into another romantic relationship with another lovestruck
moron.

A storm passes over Joker’s features.

‘Careful,’ he warns her, his high voice turning hostile. ‘Watch what you say next.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s hot. But that’s all.’

Her disgust is already fading back into discomfort. She’s just so tired of having this
conversation. God knows she had it enough times with Pammy, and look how that turned out.

‘Love really isn’t my speed.’

She isn’t sure what reaction she was expecting, but it makes her feel a little bit dim that she
didn’t predict Joker’s sigh of relief.

‘Now there’s some good news!’

Joker leans back, visibly relaxing his posture.

‘I was worried I’d have to fight you after all. And I’d really rather not! I’m an easy bleeder,
and I bet those claws leave a mark.’

‘They do.’

Joker grins at her again before he goes back to stargazing. He doesn’t volley the conversation
back to her or keep their banter going. He’s looking more relaxed by the moment— satisfied,
even. Suddenly this whole encounter makes a lot more sense than it did when he first called
out to her.

‘That was it, wasn’t it? The thing you wanted to ask me.’

‘There are rumours that the two of you are involved,’ Joker hums.

Ah.

That.

She’s heard them too. The way the fans tell it, you’d think Catwoman and Batman were
preordained.

Gotham loves to gossip. They love to imagine him rehabilitating her, like his surly charm
could ever be enough to set her straight. In their sorry little minds, the love of a good man is
all Catwoman needs to be reshaped into a law-abiding member of society.

Ugh, please. Don’t make me laugh.

‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’ Selina mutters.

Joker had been pretending not to care, picking paint from his trousers, but he goes still at that.

‘So, you two haven’t …?’

If hope were wings, dreamers would soar. Joker’s words practically drip with yearning.

Maybe when she tells him, it’s to be cruel. There’s no denying she’d like to dig the boots in a
little. Maybe it’s because, up here with Joker under the satellites, she feels a little like a
Catholic in a confession booth. Unburdening another secret tonight might mean she gets to
see the light of heaven someday.

Or maybe it’s because, just this once, Selina would like to pretend she has a friend.

‘He kissed me once,’ she admits.

It had been before Joker even came onto the scene, back toward the start of the year. The last
of that early February cold had made the rooftops icy, fogging up Selina’s breath in the
midnight air.

It hadn’t been easy getting into Tiffany’s after hours. Management had seen Catwoman’s
latest handywork in all the neighbouring jewellery chains and had rolled out the welcome mat
for her. Their upgraded motion sensors were practically military, not just detecting movement
but detecting sound, vibration and body heat, too. Even then, Catwoman had still outsmarted
it all. She’d been just about to catch her prize.

That’s when Batman snatched the 80-carat Empire Diamond necklace right out of her claws.

At first, she’d been furious. She’d wanted to rip his face off. But then that rage had simmered
back down into frustration. The Dark Knight had loomed there, all brooding and inscrutable,
his cape blending right into the shadows. The pale blue glint of his lenses was the exact same
colour as the diamonds in his hand.

You really put the cowl in scowl, don’t you, she’d teased him, sauntering in nice and close.
Batman remained silent as a morgue. He didn’t even flinch.

It was infuriating. She remembers hating how unaffected he’d been. She’d wanted a reaction.
She’d wanted to claw him until she broke through to the man beneath the armour, just to get a
peek beneath the surface.

Cat got your tongue?

It had been more sneer than question. She’d jerked her head at the necklace, using it as
misdirection to get within scratching distance.

You can’t exactly keep that. You’ll surrender it to the authorities eventually. And then you
know I’m just going to try again. And again. As many times as I need to, cupcake. Until
eventually? You’ll lose your tou—

It would have seemed impulsive from the outside. Selina’s always had the sense it was
something he’d thought about for a while, though. He’d grabbed hold of her wrist, stopping
her from clawing down across his throat, and his lips had crushed down over hers like it was
the most natural thing in the world.

There was something familiar about the taste of him. It gave her déjà vu before anything else,
even when Batman made a little grunt against her lips like he’d surprised even himself by
kissing her. It hadn’t stayed sweet for long. His mouth had fallen open with a moan the
moment she bit into his bottom lip, his big hands fanning across her back to hold her against
him.

It seemed to last forever before she finally remembered to scratch him, escaping while he was
still reeling from the shock. But she’d be lying if she said she didn’t touch her lips every time
she remembers that kiss. All that muscle, all that heat— it was her jerk-off fuel for weeks
after. When the mood strikes, it still gets her going today.

Joker sighs like he’s imagining it, too.

‘God,’ he groans, hanging his head. ‘What I wouldn’t give.’

‘It was nice,’ Selina admits. ‘Really nice. He’s good at it. He’s … he’s good. That’s just it,
though. I’m not good. And I don’t want to be. There’s just no room for a brooding, touch-
starved hero in my life. Honestly, he can be kind of suffocating.’

It’s putting it mildly. He’s sexy, but the Bat is far too clingy for her liking. The whole thing is
pathetic. He wastes all of his evenings up here on the rooftops, whining and begging for
Catwoman or Bane or any other rogue to come throw a ball around for him.

Joker hasn’t said anything. After a moment, Selina gets the sense that he’s not going to. She
glances across at him where he’s watching the clouds, reading into the daydream glittering on
his eerie eyes.

He wants to be the one to throw that ball, doesn’t he? Nothing would make him happier, not a
single thing in the whole entire world.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course,’ Joker beams. ‘That’s only fair.’

‘Are you in love with him?’

His answering smile is so lovesick, even as he shyly looks away from her and laughs out a
little chuckle beneath his breath.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘A lot of people think it’s a joke,’ Selina points out.

Joker just shakes his head.

‘I don’t joke about that. And it’s a lot more than love, believe you me. I love him, and I want
him, and I need him.’
Selina hesitates before prodding him further.

‘And when you say need …’

Joker nods knowingly.

‘It sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? Like a heroine declaring love in classic literature.’

Or a lunatic painting the walls of his cell, Selina replies internally.

‘But I do,’ Joker continues, none the wiser. ‘I really, truly do.’

Joker fumbles around for the right words to describe it, taking little breaths a few times as he
makes his false starts. He gives her an imploring look in the end before he opens with the
obvious.

‘I’m a little unstable. Ha, more than a little. But I don’t want to hurt people. It’s just that
sometimes I get carried away. I get tunnel vision, and everything starts moving so fast up
here—’ he taps his temple— ‘until suddenly it feels like nobody can get hurt. It’s like we’re
all in a stage show or playing pretend, so I stop remembering to play nice. Because there’s no
need to. Not if it isn’t real. But Batman … Oh, he’s real, alright. He’s so real that suddenly I
can see how everything else is, too. And he’s looking at me. Just me. Until I feel like I’m real,
too.’

Joker flashes her a smile like this is all just conversational.

‘That’s why,’ he says. ‘Every time Batman looks at me, that’s the carrot on my stick.’

Selina arches an eyebrow.

‘So you need him to keep you on the straight and narrow?’

‘I can keep myself on the straight and narrow,’ Joker corrects her, bristling a little before he
settles back down. ‘Batman … I need him to remind me that I want to. Does that make
sense?’

It does.

God help her, but it does.

‘I wish it didn’t,’ Selina sighs. ‘It makes me think I might belong in Arkham, too.’

‘Ha! They’d have to cut a hole in the straightjacket for your tail! Can you imagine? I mean
I’ve heard of cats with anxiety before, but this is ridiculous!’

And for a moment, Joker’s just the costume he’s made for himself. He laughs gleefully and
vanishes behind the giggling prankster he brought to life for Batman, the fae-like creature
packed full to bursting with mischief and jokes. But then the mask eases away again, and he’s
just a boy in love.
 ‘When I say I need him to remind me …’ Joker shakes his head. ‘It’s not as if he’s ever
needed to try. Everything he does— every step, every breath. That’s all the reminder I need.’

There’s that smile again. It’s sharp and it’s honest and it’s completely unconditional.

‘He exists,’ Joker laughs, delighted. ‘And I get to be near him.’

Selina can’t look away. He’s still watching the satellites, and there are no stars in the sky but
there are plenty in his eyes.

‘That’s enough,’ Joker murmurs. ‘That’s so much more than enough.’

He’s pathetic. He’s certifiably insane.

And for a second there?

He’s just so fucking beautiful.

Chapter End Notes

still alive reached 5k hits recently!!! I finally kicked my butt into writing the epilogue
chapter to celebrate!

i'm on a bit of a selina bend lately, she's just so interesting to write-- and i really wanted
the excuse to write a much more honest take on joker since we mostly only see him
through bruce. what does joker look like when he's not getting described through bruce's
rose-coloured glasses??? well here u go, the answer is apparently a little bit pathetic, a
little bit hopeless, and oddly endearing to the BAMF women he manages to collect
along the way

thanks so much for coming along on this wild ride with me!!! my new year's resolution
is to post a jaxverse chapter every week this year -- so far i'm two for two!
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!