Break My Fall 4/4
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
“Heard you’re going to Princeton.”
Bruce feels his blood run cold. His hand clenches on the phone receiver and he sinks heavily onto the bed. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Read it in Gotham Today,” Jack says evenly.
And Bruce feels like utter shit. He’d given the interview weeks ago, answering the question about his college plans without thought. Of course it would be published, and of course Jack would see it.
“You shouldn’t have found out like that. I’m s-“
“Don’t,” Jack snaps at him. “We both knew this was coming.”
Bruce says nothing. He hadn’t been sure that Jack knew it was coming, actually.
“And I’ve heard that Princeton is great,” Jack continues. His voice is sugar-coated and over-bright. Bruce shifts uneasily but tries to banter back.
“I’ve heard there’s a lot of rich pricks there.”
“What, you afraid they can’t take one more?”
“Ha ha, always a joker. Look, I’m having a graduation party on Saturday. Will you come?”
“Nuh-uh. Working.”
“You?”
“Someone’s gotta keep me in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed,” Jack’s sneering laugh sounds a bit more genuine to Bruce’s ears. “I’ll come over after I’m done. How about that?”
“Okay.” There’s a pause. “Jack?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“I really am…” He doesn’t say it, because he knows Jack doesn’t want him to. “I wish that I could…”
“I know,” Jack says gently and hangs up.
***
Bruce spends the next few days mindlessly acting by rote. He removes his armor piece by piece, assembling it on its stand, not feeling the ache in his body from where the bullets impacted his armor. He grabs rags and cleaning supplies and returns to the Tumbler, begins to methodically clean the girl’s blood out of the passenger side. Alfred calls him half-way through, but Bruce cannot hear the phone ringing past the ringing in his own ears. It doesn’t matter. He doubts the old man has anything to say that Bruce wants to hear.
It takes hours before the last speck of blood is gone. Bruce gathers the bucket and cleaning supplies and returns them to their spot under the industrial sink. He grabs a metal garbage can and goes back for the rags. He scoops up the pile of crimson-soaked terrycloth and discards it. And suddenly, the horror sweeps over him anew-the smell of blood, the tacky feel of it on his hands and in his hair. The numbness abates a little and he can suddenly feel the ache in his chest. He retches into the garbage can, holding back tears.
When the dry-heaves finally subside, he is filled with renewed purpose. He dismantles the armor, stuffing it into the garbage can with the blood-soaked rags. His hands are shaking, but he doesn’t stop, carefully disassembling each piece of Kevlar before tossing it into the trash. When he’s finished, he strips the spare suit of weapons and places it in the trash with the other one.
He looks around his stark, white haven, eyes stinging. Right-the Tumbler is next. It takes hours to strip the vehicle of weapons, guidance system, anything that can be used against the GCPD. He tears out the computer’s circuit boards with his bare hands, cutting himself on the metal and leaving smudges of blood on the electronics. The blood hardens as he works, flaking off of his hands and onto the cold metal floor. He ignores it. He pounds away at his toys, destroying everything that he can. He keeps his mind dulled out. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat. He ignores Alfred’s calls. He methodically tears apart every link he has to Batman.
On the third day, his body gives in to exhaustion and he passes out.
When he wakes up, Joker is there.
“You know,” Joker drawls, smoothing Bruce’s hair back from his forehead. “You are not an easy man to find.”
Bruce stares at him, mind peculiarly calm. He cannot find it in himself to be surprised or upset that Joker has discovered his hideaway. He feels nothing at all.
Joker’s hands continue their petting as Bruce watches him, his brain cataloguing his actions automatically. Joker has traded in the threadbare drawstring pants and t-shirt of the average Arkham inmate for his trademark suit, along with waistcoat and tie. Brown leather shoes and soft suede gloves complete the outfit. There is a black wooden walking stick lying near his bent knee. His hair has overgrown the buzz cut he was periodically given as a prisoner, blond curls wisping around his bare, makeup-less face. He is more like the boy Bruce remembers than the madman that is his enemy, and it throws Bruce off, makes him unable to react the way he knows he should.
Joker presses a paper cup of water from the sink into his hands.
“Drink this,” he says with an encouraging smile.
Bruce drinks it, still in a daze. The water feels wonderful in his dry throat, and he gulps it down, handing the empty cup back. Joker takes it and disappears for a moment, returns with another cup of water and a granola bar. Bruce eats, watching the other man, who has settled in front of him, that slight smile still on his face. It feels like a dream-Bruce’s thoughts float through his head, barely ruffling the surface of his conscious mind. Instead, his head is steeped in a warm stupor. He finishes the food, setting the cup and the wrapper beside him and then turns to the clown.
Joker ruffles his hair fondly. “That’s my boy.”
He stands, leaning on his walking stick as he draws himself up. He puts his weight on his right leg and leans down to Bruce. Bruce takes his proffered hand and lets Joker draw him to his feet. His knee is stiff from so long in one position and he nearly collapses when it won’t take his weight. He claws at the wall for purchase, Joker’s hand under his elbow propping him up as he stretches the stiffness out. The pain breaks through some of his numbness, but it still feels far away and dream-like. Eventually, he is able to stand on his own and he follows Joker outside.
There is a car waiting, stolen no doubt, but Bruce doesn’t question it. He climbs into the passenger seat and watches as Joker fumbles with the keys and turns the engine over. The reality of the situation has still not set in fully. He is sitting in a car with Joker; he had woken to find him in his hideaway; he is even now being driven to some unknown place. Yet nothing stirs in his mind, no hint of anger or fear. Perhaps he has a death wish. Or perhaps he just doesn’t care anymore.
It takes a few minutes for Bruce to realize that they are heading for Wayne Manor, but Joker turns off before they get to the main entrance, taking the lower road towards the boathouse. Bruce hasn’t been there since the manor was rebuilt-hasn’t wanted to deal with the memories of his times there with Jack. Joker rolls the car to a stop and they both get out. Bruce’s eyes fix on the dock, charred and ramshackle with decay. A surge of exhaustion sweeps over his body. He drags his eyes away and goes inside.
Joker is looking around the dim room, his tongue darting out to lick at his scars. “The old one was better,” he observes.
Bruce approaches him, that strange lassitude still settling into his limbs. “The roof leaked.”
“Eh, it had charm,” Joker demurs. “Some people like that sort of thing.” Bruce shuts his eyes, letting familiar laughter wash over him. He usually finds it irritating, but now it is soothing.
“And, some people look like they’re about the fall over,” Joker observes. Bruce slits his eyes back open and smiles faintly at him.
Joker’s hands push Bruce towards the couch, urging him to lie down and then straddling Bruce’s torso and fitting his chest against Bruce’s. He cups Bruce’s face in both of his hands, rubbing his knuckles on the stubble around Bruce’s jawline. The warmth of his hands is sinking into Bruce’s body, making it hard to focus.
“You don’t think this is real,” he says, gaze oddly affectionate.
Bruce shakes his head.
“Oh Brucie, Brucie, Brucie. You still have me, you know. You never didn’t have me. Your having of me was and is a permanent affair.”
Joker bends and places a tender kiss on Bruce’s forehead. His arms tighten around Bruce. Bruce closes his eyes and turns his face into Joker’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Joker hums and pulls Bruce closer, fitting their bodies together on the narrow couch. Bruce’s mind finally resigns the last vestiges of awareness and he falls asleep in the madman’s arms.
***
The party is horrible. Bruce makes his way through the crowd of his father’s friends, smiling his plastic smile as they press envelopes of cash into his hands. He makes his way over to Rachel, beautiful in a deep red dress.
“Bruce, congratulations!” She says and kisses his cheek.
“You, too. I heard about the internship at the district attorney’s office.”
Rachel smiles at him and they clink glasses in a comradely gesture. They sip champagne until the silence turns awkward. “I’m sorry,” Rachel says. “I know we haven’t seen a lot of each other in the past few months. I hope you don’t think I’ve been avoiding you.”
“No,” Bruce says, waving away her apology. “It’s okay. I know you’ve been busy with school.”
“Yeah,” she says, her warm eyes meeting his. “But it’s no excuse.” Her soft hand closes around his arm. “I miss you,” she says softly.
Bruce feels his chest tighten. “I miss you, too,” he tells her.
The crowd eventually thins down to stragglers. Rachel and her date leave, and Bruce makes the rounds again, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Alfred stays to escort the last of the guests outside, but Bruce has had enough. He goes to his room and strips off his jacket and tie and throws them into his chair before sitting on the bed to untie his shoes.
“You’ve gotten better at that,” Jack’s voice purrs from the balcony. Bruce does not startle.
“Taking off my clothes?” Bruce asks, toeing off his stiff leather shoes with a groan.
“Well, that too,” Jack tells him. He leans against the frame of the glass door, watching Bruce unfasten his cufflinks. “But I meant the party. Being Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce sets the cufflinks on the dresser top, eyebrows furrowing. “But I am Bruce Wayne.”
“No, you’re not.”
Jack lolls back against the glass, tendrils of hair sticking to the rain-soaked pane. The earthy smell of wet grass drifts in on the cool night breeze. Moonlight illuminates Jack’s face, his eyes following Bruce’s movements with something close to menace in his gaze.
“The girls are gonna love it,” he drawls. “Or boys.”
“Girls,” Bruce says. “I’m not-I mean, you’re the only man I’ve…”
He trails off, trying to catch Jack’s eye. Everything here is wrong, Jack’s stillness and the tone of voice. Bruce desperately wants to walk over to Jack and wrap his arms around him, to bury his face in Jack’s neck and never let go. But the look in Jack’s eyes forbids him for even taking a step in his direction.
“Well, there’s that,” Jack says. He finally looks at Bruce, his smile wide and strained. “Do it for me, then. I want to see what it looks like.”
“Do what for you?”
“Play Bruce Wayne.” He moves towards Bruce slowly, his shoulders hunched, his entire body leaning towards Bruce like a stalking predator.
“No. I don’t want-“
“It’s what I want. And I deserve to get what I want, don’t I?”
And Bruce knows it’s wrong, and that it will hurt both of them in the end. But he also knows that he is the one leaving, and he owns it to Jack to try to make it right. So, he slides on his Bruce Wayne mask. He slouches a bit, leaning forward casually, his face set in a rakish grin. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it, and pushes up his sleeves. He regards Jack, cocking an eyebrow at him and smiling slowly.
“Hey beautiful,” he says, his voice smooth, playful.
He wants Jack to smile back, to crack a joke at the ridiculousness of his playboy billionaire persona. But Jack plays along. He casts his eyes down demurely, brushes his blond hair back in a coy gesture, and touches Bruce’s arm.
It’s like a twisted game of chicken. Bruce presses in, using every stupid, outrageously flattering line he knows, smirking and flirtatious. And Jack responds, playing the part of the innocent young girl to perfection. Bruce hates it; hates everything about the insipid, shy way that Jack kisses him, hates how Jack’s hands modestly resting on Bruce’s waist rather than clawing their way inside his clothes. Bruce presses him back into the dresser, using his greater bulk to his advantage. He pulls Jack’s shirt from his pants and snakes his hand inside to caress the small of his back. Jack squeaks--a sound he would never, ever make--and arches timidly against him. His hands smooth up Bruce’s back lightly and Bruce pulls away, disgusted.
Jack’s face is still set in a demure smile, and something inside Bruce snaps at the sight. He grabs handfuls of Jack’s shirt and spins them, body-checking Jack into the wall. Jack’s head bounces against the plaster and Bruce seizes him, bounces him against the wall again. The lethargy begins to clear from Jack’s eyes and Bruce leans in, triumphantly seizing Jack’s mouth in a kiss. He bites at Jack’s lower lip, tongue running over Jack’s scars before plundering his mouth again. Bruce feels like all his prayers have been answered when Jack’s tongue moves against his.
Their teeth clash in another fierce kiss and Bruce bites down, tasting blood. Jack’s hands fist in his hair, his tongue pushing against Bruce’s. Bruce’s head fills with white noise, every nerve ending buzzing as he claws at Jack’s shirt. Buttons tear away and the shirt is pushed frantically down Jack’s arms. Jack gasps as Bruce’s mouth descends to bite down his throat. He leans his head back with a groan, digging his nails into the back of Bruce’s neck as he bites and sucks, leaving marks on the pale flesh.
Bruce pulls away, pawing at the front of Jack’s pants until he’s able to push them down. He roughly turns Jack around, pushing his face into the wall. His hands on Jack’s hips bend him until his ass is in the air. He keeps one hand there, riffling feverishly through his dresser drawer with the other. He finds what he is looking for and pops the cap one-handed, spreading lube on his fingers. Bruce is nearly trembling with need, and he cannot slow himself, cannot even find the resolve to do so. He spreads Jack’s asscheeks and slides his slick fingers against his entrance. Jack whimpers and arches against Bruce’s questing hand. Bruce does not hesitate; he pushes two fingers roughly inside, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction when Jack groans, his forehead hitting the wall in front of him as he rocks his hips back, impaling himself on Bruce’s fingers.
Bruce fingers him roughly, and Jack arches against his hand like a wanton whore. Bruce’s blood is burning as he bites the flesh of Jack’s back, lapping up sweat. He wants to mark this man, to leave scars on him that will never fade. His senses are buzzing in his head, desire cresting over him, and he bites down savagely, breaking skin. Jack screams, but he pushes back against him, shifting closer to Bruce’s vicious mouth.
“Yes, you fucking beautiful thing,” he slurs. “Do it!”
Bruce bites down harder. Blood wells around his mouth and he sucks, grinding his teeth into the flesh, head spinning. Jack screams again, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. Giggles pour out of his wide-open mouth and Bruce pulls back, lips wet.
His fingers are moving somewhat smoothly inside Jack’s ass and he pulls them out, slicking up his own cock and pushing roughly into Jack’s tight heat. Jack’s knees buckle and his head tips back lewdly, a load moan escaping his throat. Bruce grabs a fistful of blond hair and fastens his lips to Jack’s neck, sucking and tearing with his teeth, holding Jack’s hip in an iron grip as he fucks into him with brutal purpose. Anger is swirling in Bruce’s chest and all he wants to do is push every bit of his rage into Jack.
And Jack lets him. He giggles and moans and shakes. He whines and pounds on the wall and pushes back into Bruce. He takes everything that Bruce is giving him and he urges Bruce on.
Bruce can feel his orgasm barreling down on him, and he pushes Jack forward into the wall, gripping his hip with bruising force, taking Jack’s wet cock into his other hand and beating him off in time to his wild thrusts. Jack hisses and clenches, coming almost immediately. Bruce isn’t far behind, pistoning his hips into Jack’s body a few more times before he shudders through his own orgasm.
He pulls out, trying to be gentle, and lets them both sink to the floor. He lays his head on Jack’s bloody back, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. He screws his eyes shut, suddenly ashamed of himself.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Jack croons, shifting around to put his arms around Bruce, pulling him in tightly. Bruce lays his head on the battered skin of Jack’s shoulder and lets himself be held. The weight in his chest makes it hard to drag in breath. His anger has burned itself to ash inside of him, leaving only crushing grief behind. Jack’s fingers card through his hair, and Bruce gives in to the comfort for a moment before pulling away.
He urges Jack to his feet and into the bathroom. He runs the water in the shower, pulls Jack inside the tiled partition with him and tenderly washes him, rinsing blood and semen from Jack’s bruised flesh. Bruce’s cheeks burn with shame when he realizes that some of the bite marks will scar. He shuts off the water, pats Jack dry, then makes him sit on the toilet lid as he disinfects and dresses each wound. Silence stretches between them, ringing and empty.
When he is finished, Bruce retrieves Jack’s clothes. The shirt is a lost cause and so he gives Jack one of his own, pulling it over Jack’s shoulders and buttoning it up. He forces his fingers not to linger. Jack tilts his head, trying to meet Bruce’s eyes but Bruce steps back, letting his hands fall away. He keeps his eyes resolutely lowered.
He is afraid of what he might do if he looks at Jack right now.
Bruce goes over to his desk and writes something down on his personalized stationary. He hands the note to Jack. Jack doesn’t look at it, doesn’t take his eyes off of Bruce’s distressed face, forcing Bruce to explain. “It’s my cell phone number. If you ever need it.”
Jack tucks the piece of paper into his pocket. Bruce does not watch him leave.
Jack never calls.
***
Bright colors, lights, press of people. Pushing past the crowd, fear clogging his throat, hitting the cool night air and pulling in deep calming breaths. A broad hand on his back, and a horrible sense of foreboding as a man steps out of the shadows, something gleaming in his hand.
The nightmare unspools behind Bruce’s eyes, familiar horror catching in his chest as he lunges forward, mouth open in a silent scream. Each step feels like walking in quicksand, breath burning in his lungs and he stretches forward, reaching, reaching… Pop. Poppoppop. The retort of the gun is deafening. Bruce watches his parents crumple. His knees give way, shock and sorrow bearing him down. He reaches out, touching the still, cold forms and then the figures morph and it is Rachel and Jenny lying in front of him, their faces ghastly white, the eyes of the little girl open to stare accusingly up into his. He couldn’t save them. He couldn’t save any of them--
He starts awake, covered in sweat.
And starts again at the unmistakable sound of a revolver’s cylinder flicking into place. Bruce jerks around to see Joker sitting in the chair opposite him, coolly flipping the cylinder open again. It hits the frame and he spins it with a whir, looking down the site before flicking it back into place. He thumbs the hammer back with an audible ‘click’ and points the gun at Bruce.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he chirps, his voice full of cheerful menace.
He’s got his facepaint back on. White greasepaint gleams in the dim light, the garish red slash of his smile twisting. Bruce very carefully turns fully toward him, setting both of his feet on the floor.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about that scene back in your Bathole,” Joker says conversationally. “All those broken toys and stuff.” He gestures widely with the gun in his hand. “You’ve had people die on you before. You’ve even taken the blame for their deaths before. So, I’ve been thinking, what’s so different about this time?” He pauses.
“And I’m thinking it’s that.” Joker extends his arm, pointing the gun at Bruce’s right knee.
Bruce’s eyes slit fractionally, jaw tightening. It’s all the confirmation Joker needs. He sets the gun down on the end table and stands, leaning heavily on his right leg. His gaze is a threat that heats every part of Bruce’s body at once. Bruce stands as well. They both pause, the length of the room between them, and the moment stretches-the air humming with anticipation. Their eyes lock. Joker bares his teeth in a feral smile.
They both spring forward at once. They go down in a tangle of limbs, rolling as Joker’s chattering laughter swells up. Joker’s fists connect with his torso in a rain of frantic blows. Bruce’s head swims. It feels like coming home. Bruce twists underneath him, bridging up for a counterattack. Skin and bone connect under his fists with a cracking sound. Joker tips his head back, giggling, blood dripping from his open mouth. Bruce raises his fist again, his other hand grasping the lapel of Joker’s purple jacket. He stuffs his fist into Joker’s face, punches and hits and grinds up into him mindless to anything but tearing the madman apart.
Joker’s hands seize Bruce’s wrists. He uses his body weight to push Bruce’s arms to the floor, pinning him. “Now now, that is enough of our usual foreplay,” he drawls.
Joker leans forward, placing a soft kiss on Bruce’s lips. He pulls back, grip as tight as iron on Bruce’s wrists, and then bends again and pushes his tongue into Bruce’s mouth.
Bruce’s head swims-the endorphins from the fight and the banked desire filling his veins with blood-soaked sand. Joker’s hips move coyly, grinding into the one’s beneath him. Bruce cannot help the way he gasps into Joker’s mouth, the awareness of his erection, swollen and pressed against Joker’s own, blotting out his reason for a moment.
Joker uses the moment to shift away, releasing Bruce’s wrists and sits up. Bruce attempts to follow but is pushed back down by strong hands. The point of a knife keeps him down, Joker’s blade pressing into the soft skin of his throat. Joker’s other hand picks at the front of Bruce’s shirt, parting the fabric. His nails prick Bruce’s skin as he trails them down Bruce’s chest and pops open the button on his fly. He shifts his weight off Bruce, the pressure of the knife never easing, and uses his other hand to take off Bruce’s pants and boxers.
When Bruce is naked, Joker’s warm hands slide under Bruce, urging him to turn over. Bruce does, brain in a vertigo. Joker leans close to whisper in his ear, “Now, be a good bat and don’t move.”
He pats Bruce’s cheek affectionately and rolls off of Bruce.
There is the sound of undressing. Bruce stays where he is. The pressure in his head is building. His body feels heavy and slow. Guilt and pain are dead weights in his chest, but it’s okay. It’s okay. He is safe and he is being cared for. The thought that it is Joker who is providing this respite only proves to Bruce how wrong he is.
Batman is over. It’s all over.
There is a slight rustling sound behind him. That is all the warning he has before Joker’s walking stick cracks smartly against his bare shoulders. Bruce hisses in pain and shock, automatically lifting himself on his arms, but Joker’s foot plants between his shoulder blades, pushing him back down.
“No,” he says, drawing the vowel out chidingly. “It’s time for you to take your medicine.”
Understanding comes in a rush and his mouth goes dry. Joker removes his foot and Bruce shifts, pulling his arms into his body, squaring up his back. He hears Joker’s breathy chuckle.
“Yeah, you get it,” he says, trailing a hand teasingly down Bruce’s spine.
And then the walking stick crashes down again, obliterating every thought from Bruce’s mind. Bruce gasps with the first few blows-he cannot believe how much it hurts. Each blow feels like fire bursting under his skin. Joker is not holding back at all, beating him with all the strength of his whipcord body behind him, the heavy wooden stick raining blows over the skin of his back, his ass, his thighs.
Bruce squirms and cries out, tears prinking behind his eyelids. Joker chose not to tie him up, Bruce realizes. He wants Bruce to be able to move, to respond, to submit himself to this. To take his punishment.
It goes on and on, the pain searing him, scorching into every cell until there is no escaping it. He welcomes the pain, feeling with each strike the pressure around his heart easing. Dopamine dumps into his veins, his senses shutting out one by one until all that exists is the feeling of the blows lavishing his body. Bruce howls and sobs and he takes it. He takes everything that Joker is giving him, feeling cleansed with each stroke.
After an endless time, the blows abate. Bruce hears the walking stick clatter to the carpet, and Joker’s low grunt as he kneels beside Bruce’s battered body. His fingers stroke through Bruce’s hair, cupping his flushed, upturned cheek. Bruce feels a warm tongue lapping up his tears and he turns, exposing his entire face to Joker’s questing tongue. The licks give way to lingering kisses. Joker sucks at his lips, mouth clinging and Bruce kisses back, desperate and hungry. His arms tingle from where they have been pinned to his chest, but he raises them the moment he regains feeling, pulling Joker closer. The jagged landscape of that ruined mouth is so familiar. Joker moans into the kiss and Bruce pulls back.
A crest of indefinable emotion rises in his chest as he gazes into Joker’s face.
“It’s done,” Joker says, cradling him. “You’re square now, you understand?”
Bruce nods. Yes, he’s square. The guilt that has been driving him for days has finally eased. Bruce hasn’t felt this human in years.
He feels himself smiling at Joker, and Joker smiles back and cups Bruce’s face in his hands again. He kisses Bruce unhurriedly, hands lingering in Bruce’s hair, trailing teasingly down his chest to circle over his nipples. He pulls Bruce over him, and Bruce presses their hips together, Joker’s cock wet against his own. It is all so familiar-the way the man beneath him moves, the way his fingers twist inside Bruce, the way their bodies fit together. Bruce takes him inside, rides him as Joker’s nails graze the welts on his back, making him moan and shiver. Joker’s hand strokes Bruce’s cock with perfect pressure, the tempo slow and then faster as Bruce’s movements become more frantic. It is all so familiar, and so sweet.
Bruce cries out when he comes, clutching the man beneath him close. “Jack,” he murmurs into blonde curls and the man beneath him shudders and moans and does not deny it.
***
”Bruce, I don’t suppose there is any way I can convince you not to come?” Rachel’s head tips down, dark hair spilling over her shoulder.
The manor’s driveway looks the same as it’s looked since Bruce can remember. He recalls running across the crisp gravel after Rachel, sifting for arrowheads in the garden. He remembers cutting across the lawn and jogging up the drive after a long, languorous day of swimming with Jack. He remembers the way the rain made the driveway gleam when he left here two years ago. These memories filter through his mind, but they do not stir his resolve.
The gun in his pocket is a steady weight. He feels calm and ready.
“Someone at this proceeding should stand for my parents.”
Rachel winces and argues with him, but Bruce knows it all. Knows that Joe Chill made a bargain with the DA. Knows that his testimony will help put Falcone behind bars. Knows that Chill will never live to give that testimony.
They drive to the courthouse in silence.
The parole hearing is a nightmare. Too many reporters, too much false sympathy. Bruce wishes for the millionth time that Jack was here. Bruce had tried to find him, to say goodbye. He found the apartment empty, no forwarding address, no way to contact him. Maybe it’s better this way. He knows that Jack will understand what he has to do.
Bruce follows Chill out of the courtroom, retrieving the gun he had stashed under Rachel’s car. Reporters are clogging the exits, circling for a story. One recognizes him and clears a path between him and Chill, eager for a confrontation. Bruce’s heartbeat quickens, his breath coming in short gasps. He grasps the loaded gun tightly. His vision telescopes down to a pinpoint, every cell in his body straining toward his revenge.
He does not even see the blonde step into his path until it is too late.
“Hey Chill,” she says. “Falcone says hi!” She thrusts a gun at Chill’s chest and fires. Chill falls. Reporters scream and scramble back as police scramble forward. In the melee, the blonde woman turns and Bruce feels a flash of recognition. And then she’s gone, police pursuing on foot, and Rachel is pulling him away.
They get into the car. Bruce is numb. “All these years I’ve wanted to kill him,” he says lowly, “And now he’s gone. Now I can’t.”
“You don’t mean that,” Rachel says, and it strikes Bruce then how little she truly understands him.
“I do,” he argues grimly. “Chill killed my parents. They deserve justice.”
“You’re not talking about justice,” she argues. “You’re talking about revenge!”
“They’re the same,” he tells her. She looks at him, appalled, and he can feel her slipping away from him. “Rachel, your system of justice is broken. Don’t you see that?” He is desperate to make her understand, to still have one person who understands.
“Don’t you tell me that! I’m trying every day to fix the system, while you use your grief as an excuse to do nothing!” She stops the car, gesturing out the window. “Look at this city, Bruce. Look! It’s rotting from the inside, and you know why? Because men like Falcone run this city. Joe Chill wasn’t the disease; he’s just a symptom. No one wants to deal with the real problem. Falcone may not have killed your parents, but he has destroyed everything they stood for.”
Rachel rolls the car into the street and gestures at the club opposite them. “Everyone knows where to find Falcone, but no one will touch him. They are either too scared or they’re working for him. Like your friend Jack.”
Bruce starts. “How do you-“
“Everyone knows it, Bruce. He’s too low-level for my office to go after him, and I’ve tried to keep it that way for your sake, but the path he’s on…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry Bruce, but he’s not a good man.”
And Bruce could almost laugh. “You think I am?” He pulls the gun from his sleeve. “I was going to kill Chill myself.”
Rachel stares at him in shocked silence for a moment. Her hand lashes out then, slapping him once-twice-tears flowing down her face. She points at the gun in his hand.
“Your father would be so ashamed,” she says. The words cut him to the quick, because they are true. His father hated violence. He built his legacy on creating peace. But building peace is impossible in a world like this one. There is no fairness in this world, Bruce tells himself. All his money, all his fame and charm is useless in the face of such injustice. Bruce opens the door and stumbles out onto the pavement. Rachel guns the car, leaving him behind.
His mind goes back to the blonde reporter, and that flash of recognition, and he looks down at the gun in his hand. He remembers the gun in Chill’s hand wavering as he holds it on Bruce’s parents, his eyes wide with fright and greed. And he realizes that Rachel is right. Chill was never the problem.
He turns toward the club. The bouncers try to stop him, but a wad of cash gains him entrance. Falcone is there, seating amongst the elite like a spider in a web. Bruce’s eyes scan over him, taking in the details, but he is not here for him. He waits, not knowing how he knows but he does know. And sure enough, he hears that familiar laugh braying out. He leaves the lobby, skirting the tables and following the sound into the kitchen. Jack is leaning against the back wall. He’s ditched the blonde wig, but is still wearing a grey skirt and women’s makeup. The disguise would never hold up to close scrutiny, but Bruce supposes he didn’t need a lot of time-just an opportunity.
This is what is happening in Bruce’s conscious mind. But underneath it, his emotions are going haywire-two years of frustrated longing and enraging silence tangling in his chest.
Bruce’s stride doesn’t slow as he makes for the man. Some of the kitchen staff bristle, but Jack holds up a hand to stop them. “It’s fine,” he drawls. “Just an old friend coming to say hello.”
Bruce wants to rip him apart, but he waits until Jack pulls him out the door and into the dark alley.
“I take it you’re here to have a chat about-“
“How could you do that to me?” Bruce interrupts. His fury is a red blot against his vision. He lashes out, his fist connecting with Jack’s cheek. Jack sways, but doesn’t fall. “He was mine!”
“Oh and what were you gonna do, huh? Shoot him in front of a hundred witnesses? Oh that was a great plan! Real swell.”
“Fuck you! You fucking asshole!” Bruce hits him again, and this time Jack stumbles back into the wall, laughing as his head hits the bricks. “You had no right!”
“I had every right, sweetheart,” he giggles. “Both personally and, ah- professionally.”
Bruce pauses, disappointment a crushing weight. “The mob? Jesus, how can you? You hate them.”
“Oh please,” Jack shoots back. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know. What did you think I was doing, Brucie, huh? Selling cars? Not all of us want to flunk out of the entire Ivy League to work in Daddy’s company.”
“Don’t you fucking throw that in my face. I didn’t ask for that, and I don’t want it.”
Jack sneers. “What do you want, then?”
And the devastating truth is, he wants Jack.
But he cannot--cannot--have him like this.
“I want you to leave. I want you out of Gotham.”
Jack laughs in his face. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
“Then I’ll go,” Bruce says and his voice is cold.
“Don’t,” Jack seethes. “Don’t even say that.”
But the decision has already been made. Jack must see it in Bruce’s eyes because he springs forward, pushing Bruce back into the wall, his whole body pinning Bruce to the cold brick. Bruce tries to push him off, but Jack’s grip is inescapable. “You and me-we don’t choose. We get chosen. Do you understand me?”
And Bruce does, of course he does. He can’t help what he feels for Jack, can’t help the sick rush of desire that overtakes him, even now. After everything Jack has done to him, Bruce should despise him. He does despise him. But the simple truth is that it doesn’t matter. He belongs to Jack, as surely as the other man belongs to him. Nothing can change that.
“I hate you,” Bruce whispers, half-wonderingly.
Jack smiles at him. “I hate you too, darling.”
In a flash of insight, Bruce realizes what he must do. The idea has been growing, slowly taking root in his brain for years. There is no fairness in this world, and nothing that he can do about it. He is useless as Bruce Wayne. But perhaps he can choose to become something more.
He smiles back at Jack, leaning in to place a kiss on his forehead.
“I’ll be back,” he tells him.
It is a promise.
***
“I don’t think I can take another Gotham winter,” Joker says. They are still in the boathouse, crowded into the tiny bathroom. Bruce’s wounds have been tenderly cared for and now he sits on the lowered toilet seat, watching as a shirtless Joker takes a wet washcloth to the greasepaint on his face.
“No?”
Bruce’s eyes follow the movements of his hands as Joker swipes the cloth against his cheek, revealing a bit of pink skin. His back is a pale expanse broken by scars, the faded half-circle of a bite mark clearly visible on his right shoulder blade. Bruce watches the muscles moving under Joker’s skin as he works. His mind is calm and untroubled. The skin of his back throbs, but the pain makes him feel solid. Balanced. He feels a smile crawl over his face as Joker grimaces, rubbing futily at the black paint under his eyes.
“Nope,” Joker tells him, turning on the tap and running the rag under it. “I think,” he pauses as he runs the washcloth over his mouth, more and more of his face revealed to Bruce’s gaze. “I think I want to go someplace warm. Maybe Hawaii.”
“That is just an excuse for you to wear a flowered shirt.”
Joker-Jack-snorts. “As if I need an excuse. Tijuana then.”
Bruce shakes his head. “I’ve been there. The food is good but it’s a total shithole.”
Jack cants his head, regarding him. “Have you been to Jamaica?” It is couched as an innocuous question, but Bruce can clearly hear the other question beneath it.
Bruce thinks for a moment. “I’d like to.”
A smile twists across Jack’s face. “Good,” he says. He reaches out and places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing a bit before going back to lean over the sink, continuing to unmask himself. He catches Bruce’s eyes in the mirror. “That’s good.”
***
Bruce rarely thinks about Jack in the years that he is away from Gotham. He is too busy surviving, learning, honing his skills into a weapon that can be wielded against injustice.
Seven years later, Jim Gordon hands Batman a playing card, encased in plastic.
“Got a taste for theatrics. Like you…”he says.
Bruce feels his heart constrict, fear and hope and longing planting claws in his chest.
“I’ll look in to it,” he says, and disappears into the night.
***
Bruce is thirty-five years old when he meets Jack again.
They have never been out of each other’s orbits, not really. But now, they are beginning to fit their lives around each other.
It is slow going. They have years to make up for. And there are still sore spots-wounds that never healed quite right. They try to talk and to understand each other and, when that fails, they go at each other with fists and teeth until the truth pours out.
It works.
Because the thing is…something is wrong with Bruce.
But it’s nothing that they can’t make right together.
***
~Fin.
Part Two
Part Three
“Heard you’re going to Princeton.”
Bruce feels his blood run cold. His hand clenches on the phone receiver and he sinks heavily onto the bed. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Read it in Gotham Today,” Jack says evenly.
And Bruce feels like utter shit. He’d given the interview weeks ago, answering the question about his college plans without thought. Of course it would be published, and of course Jack would see it.
“You shouldn’t have found out like that. I’m s-“
“Don’t,” Jack snaps at him. “We both knew this was coming.”
Bruce says nothing. He hadn’t been sure that Jack knew it was coming, actually.
“And I’ve heard that Princeton is great,” Jack continues. His voice is sugar-coated and over-bright. Bruce shifts uneasily but tries to banter back.
“I’ve heard there’s a lot of rich pricks there.”
“What, you afraid they can’t take one more?”
“Ha ha, always a joker. Look, I’m having a graduation party on Saturday. Will you come?”
“Nuh-uh. Working.”
“You?”
“Someone’s gotta keep me in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed,” Jack’s sneering laugh sounds a bit more genuine to Bruce’s ears. “I’ll come over after I’m done. How about that?”
“Okay.” There’s a pause. “Jack?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“I really am…” He doesn’t say it, because he knows Jack doesn’t want him to. “I wish that I could…”
“I know,” Jack says gently and hangs up.
***
Bruce spends the next few days mindlessly acting by rote. He removes his armor piece by piece, assembling it on its stand, not feeling the ache in his body from where the bullets impacted his armor. He grabs rags and cleaning supplies and returns to the Tumbler, begins to methodically clean the girl’s blood out of the passenger side. Alfred calls him half-way through, but Bruce cannot hear the phone ringing past the ringing in his own ears. It doesn’t matter. He doubts the old man has anything to say that Bruce wants to hear.
It takes hours before the last speck of blood is gone. Bruce gathers the bucket and cleaning supplies and returns them to their spot under the industrial sink. He grabs a metal garbage can and goes back for the rags. He scoops up the pile of crimson-soaked terrycloth and discards it. And suddenly, the horror sweeps over him anew-the smell of blood, the tacky feel of it on his hands and in his hair. The numbness abates a little and he can suddenly feel the ache in his chest. He retches into the garbage can, holding back tears.
When the dry-heaves finally subside, he is filled with renewed purpose. He dismantles the armor, stuffing it into the garbage can with the blood-soaked rags. His hands are shaking, but he doesn’t stop, carefully disassembling each piece of Kevlar before tossing it into the trash. When he’s finished, he strips the spare suit of weapons and places it in the trash with the other one.
He looks around his stark, white haven, eyes stinging. Right-the Tumbler is next. It takes hours to strip the vehicle of weapons, guidance system, anything that can be used against the GCPD. He tears out the computer’s circuit boards with his bare hands, cutting himself on the metal and leaving smudges of blood on the electronics. The blood hardens as he works, flaking off of his hands and onto the cold metal floor. He ignores it. He pounds away at his toys, destroying everything that he can. He keeps his mind dulled out. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat. He ignores Alfred’s calls. He methodically tears apart every link he has to Batman.
On the third day, his body gives in to exhaustion and he passes out.
When he wakes up, Joker is there.
“You know,” Joker drawls, smoothing Bruce’s hair back from his forehead. “You are not an easy man to find.”
Bruce stares at him, mind peculiarly calm. He cannot find it in himself to be surprised or upset that Joker has discovered his hideaway. He feels nothing at all.
Joker’s hands continue their petting as Bruce watches him, his brain cataloguing his actions automatically. Joker has traded in the threadbare drawstring pants and t-shirt of the average Arkham inmate for his trademark suit, along with waistcoat and tie. Brown leather shoes and soft suede gloves complete the outfit. There is a black wooden walking stick lying near his bent knee. His hair has overgrown the buzz cut he was periodically given as a prisoner, blond curls wisping around his bare, makeup-less face. He is more like the boy Bruce remembers than the madman that is his enemy, and it throws Bruce off, makes him unable to react the way he knows he should.
Joker presses a paper cup of water from the sink into his hands.
“Drink this,” he says with an encouraging smile.
Bruce drinks it, still in a daze. The water feels wonderful in his dry throat, and he gulps it down, handing the empty cup back. Joker takes it and disappears for a moment, returns with another cup of water and a granola bar. Bruce eats, watching the other man, who has settled in front of him, that slight smile still on his face. It feels like a dream-Bruce’s thoughts float through his head, barely ruffling the surface of his conscious mind. Instead, his head is steeped in a warm stupor. He finishes the food, setting the cup and the wrapper beside him and then turns to the clown.
Joker ruffles his hair fondly. “That’s my boy.”
He stands, leaning on his walking stick as he draws himself up. He puts his weight on his right leg and leans down to Bruce. Bruce takes his proffered hand and lets Joker draw him to his feet. His knee is stiff from so long in one position and he nearly collapses when it won’t take his weight. He claws at the wall for purchase, Joker’s hand under his elbow propping him up as he stretches the stiffness out. The pain breaks through some of his numbness, but it still feels far away and dream-like. Eventually, he is able to stand on his own and he follows Joker outside.
There is a car waiting, stolen no doubt, but Bruce doesn’t question it. He climbs into the passenger seat and watches as Joker fumbles with the keys and turns the engine over. The reality of the situation has still not set in fully. He is sitting in a car with Joker; he had woken to find him in his hideaway; he is even now being driven to some unknown place. Yet nothing stirs in his mind, no hint of anger or fear. Perhaps he has a death wish. Or perhaps he just doesn’t care anymore.
It takes a few minutes for Bruce to realize that they are heading for Wayne Manor, but Joker turns off before they get to the main entrance, taking the lower road towards the boathouse. Bruce hasn’t been there since the manor was rebuilt-hasn’t wanted to deal with the memories of his times there with Jack. Joker rolls the car to a stop and they both get out. Bruce’s eyes fix on the dock, charred and ramshackle with decay. A surge of exhaustion sweeps over his body. He drags his eyes away and goes inside.
Joker is looking around the dim room, his tongue darting out to lick at his scars. “The old one was better,” he observes.
Bruce approaches him, that strange lassitude still settling into his limbs. “The roof leaked.”
“Eh, it had charm,” Joker demurs. “Some people like that sort of thing.” Bruce shuts his eyes, letting familiar laughter wash over him. He usually finds it irritating, but now it is soothing.
“And, some people look like they’re about the fall over,” Joker observes. Bruce slits his eyes back open and smiles faintly at him.
Joker’s hands push Bruce towards the couch, urging him to lie down and then straddling Bruce’s torso and fitting his chest against Bruce’s. He cups Bruce’s face in both of his hands, rubbing his knuckles on the stubble around Bruce’s jawline. The warmth of his hands is sinking into Bruce’s body, making it hard to focus.
“You don’t think this is real,” he says, gaze oddly affectionate.
Bruce shakes his head.
“Oh Brucie, Brucie, Brucie. You still have me, you know. You never didn’t have me. Your having of me was and is a permanent affair.”
Joker bends and places a tender kiss on Bruce’s forehead. His arms tighten around Bruce. Bruce closes his eyes and turns his face into Joker’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Joker hums and pulls Bruce closer, fitting their bodies together on the narrow couch. Bruce’s mind finally resigns the last vestiges of awareness and he falls asleep in the madman’s arms.
***
The party is horrible. Bruce makes his way through the crowd of his father’s friends, smiling his plastic smile as they press envelopes of cash into his hands. He makes his way over to Rachel, beautiful in a deep red dress.
“Bruce, congratulations!” She says and kisses his cheek.
“You, too. I heard about the internship at the district attorney’s office.”
Rachel smiles at him and they clink glasses in a comradely gesture. They sip champagne until the silence turns awkward. “I’m sorry,” Rachel says. “I know we haven’t seen a lot of each other in the past few months. I hope you don’t think I’ve been avoiding you.”
“No,” Bruce says, waving away her apology. “It’s okay. I know you’ve been busy with school.”
“Yeah,” she says, her warm eyes meeting his. “But it’s no excuse.” Her soft hand closes around his arm. “I miss you,” she says softly.
Bruce feels his chest tighten. “I miss you, too,” he tells her.
The crowd eventually thins down to stragglers. Rachel and her date leave, and Bruce makes the rounds again, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Alfred stays to escort the last of the guests outside, but Bruce has had enough. He goes to his room and strips off his jacket and tie and throws them into his chair before sitting on the bed to untie his shoes.
“You’ve gotten better at that,” Jack’s voice purrs from the balcony. Bruce does not startle.
“Taking off my clothes?” Bruce asks, toeing off his stiff leather shoes with a groan.
“Well, that too,” Jack tells him. He leans against the frame of the glass door, watching Bruce unfasten his cufflinks. “But I meant the party. Being Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce sets the cufflinks on the dresser top, eyebrows furrowing. “But I am Bruce Wayne.”
“No, you’re not.”
Jack lolls back against the glass, tendrils of hair sticking to the rain-soaked pane. The earthy smell of wet grass drifts in on the cool night breeze. Moonlight illuminates Jack’s face, his eyes following Bruce’s movements with something close to menace in his gaze.
“The girls are gonna love it,” he drawls. “Or boys.”
“Girls,” Bruce says. “I’m not-I mean, you’re the only man I’ve…”
He trails off, trying to catch Jack’s eye. Everything here is wrong, Jack’s stillness and the tone of voice. Bruce desperately wants to walk over to Jack and wrap his arms around him, to bury his face in Jack’s neck and never let go. But the look in Jack’s eyes forbids him for even taking a step in his direction.
“Well, there’s that,” Jack says. He finally looks at Bruce, his smile wide and strained. “Do it for me, then. I want to see what it looks like.”
“Do what for you?”
“Play Bruce Wayne.” He moves towards Bruce slowly, his shoulders hunched, his entire body leaning towards Bruce like a stalking predator.
“No. I don’t want-“
“It’s what I want. And I deserve to get what I want, don’t I?”
And Bruce knows it’s wrong, and that it will hurt both of them in the end. But he also knows that he is the one leaving, and he owns it to Jack to try to make it right. So, he slides on his Bruce Wayne mask. He slouches a bit, leaning forward casually, his face set in a rakish grin. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it, and pushes up his sleeves. He regards Jack, cocking an eyebrow at him and smiling slowly.
“Hey beautiful,” he says, his voice smooth, playful.
He wants Jack to smile back, to crack a joke at the ridiculousness of his playboy billionaire persona. But Jack plays along. He casts his eyes down demurely, brushes his blond hair back in a coy gesture, and touches Bruce’s arm.
It’s like a twisted game of chicken. Bruce presses in, using every stupid, outrageously flattering line he knows, smirking and flirtatious. And Jack responds, playing the part of the innocent young girl to perfection. Bruce hates it; hates everything about the insipid, shy way that Jack kisses him, hates how Jack’s hands modestly resting on Bruce’s waist rather than clawing their way inside his clothes. Bruce presses him back into the dresser, using his greater bulk to his advantage. He pulls Jack’s shirt from his pants and snakes his hand inside to caress the small of his back. Jack squeaks--a sound he would never, ever make--and arches timidly against him. His hands smooth up Bruce’s back lightly and Bruce pulls away, disgusted.
Jack’s face is still set in a demure smile, and something inside Bruce snaps at the sight. He grabs handfuls of Jack’s shirt and spins them, body-checking Jack into the wall. Jack’s head bounces against the plaster and Bruce seizes him, bounces him against the wall again. The lethargy begins to clear from Jack’s eyes and Bruce leans in, triumphantly seizing Jack’s mouth in a kiss. He bites at Jack’s lower lip, tongue running over Jack’s scars before plundering his mouth again. Bruce feels like all his prayers have been answered when Jack’s tongue moves against his.
Their teeth clash in another fierce kiss and Bruce bites down, tasting blood. Jack’s hands fist in his hair, his tongue pushing against Bruce’s. Bruce’s head fills with white noise, every nerve ending buzzing as he claws at Jack’s shirt. Buttons tear away and the shirt is pushed frantically down Jack’s arms. Jack gasps as Bruce’s mouth descends to bite down his throat. He leans his head back with a groan, digging his nails into the back of Bruce’s neck as he bites and sucks, leaving marks on the pale flesh.
Bruce pulls away, pawing at the front of Jack’s pants until he’s able to push them down. He roughly turns Jack around, pushing his face into the wall. His hands on Jack’s hips bend him until his ass is in the air. He keeps one hand there, riffling feverishly through his dresser drawer with the other. He finds what he is looking for and pops the cap one-handed, spreading lube on his fingers. Bruce is nearly trembling with need, and he cannot slow himself, cannot even find the resolve to do so. He spreads Jack’s asscheeks and slides his slick fingers against his entrance. Jack whimpers and arches against Bruce’s questing hand. Bruce does not hesitate; he pushes two fingers roughly inside, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction when Jack groans, his forehead hitting the wall in front of him as he rocks his hips back, impaling himself on Bruce’s fingers.
Bruce fingers him roughly, and Jack arches against his hand like a wanton whore. Bruce’s blood is burning as he bites the flesh of Jack’s back, lapping up sweat. He wants to mark this man, to leave scars on him that will never fade. His senses are buzzing in his head, desire cresting over him, and he bites down savagely, breaking skin. Jack screams, but he pushes back against him, shifting closer to Bruce’s vicious mouth.
“Yes, you fucking beautiful thing,” he slurs. “Do it!”
Bruce bites down harder. Blood wells around his mouth and he sucks, grinding his teeth into the flesh, head spinning. Jack screams again, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. Giggles pour out of his wide-open mouth and Bruce pulls back, lips wet.
His fingers are moving somewhat smoothly inside Jack’s ass and he pulls them out, slicking up his own cock and pushing roughly into Jack’s tight heat. Jack’s knees buckle and his head tips back lewdly, a load moan escaping his throat. Bruce grabs a fistful of blond hair and fastens his lips to Jack’s neck, sucking and tearing with his teeth, holding Jack’s hip in an iron grip as he fucks into him with brutal purpose. Anger is swirling in Bruce’s chest and all he wants to do is push every bit of his rage into Jack.
And Jack lets him. He giggles and moans and shakes. He whines and pounds on the wall and pushes back into Bruce. He takes everything that Bruce is giving him and he urges Bruce on.
Bruce can feel his orgasm barreling down on him, and he pushes Jack forward into the wall, gripping his hip with bruising force, taking Jack’s wet cock into his other hand and beating him off in time to his wild thrusts. Jack hisses and clenches, coming almost immediately. Bruce isn’t far behind, pistoning his hips into Jack’s body a few more times before he shudders through his own orgasm.
He pulls out, trying to be gentle, and lets them both sink to the floor. He lays his head on Jack’s bloody back, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. He screws his eyes shut, suddenly ashamed of himself.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Jack croons, shifting around to put his arms around Bruce, pulling him in tightly. Bruce lays his head on the battered skin of Jack’s shoulder and lets himself be held. The weight in his chest makes it hard to drag in breath. His anger has burned itself to ash inside of him, leaving only crushing grief behind. Jack’s fingers card through his hair, and Bruce gives in to the comfort for a moment before pulling away.
He urges Jack to his feet and into the bathroom. He runs the water in the shower, pulls Jack inside the tiled partition with him and tenderly washes him, rinsing blood and semen from Jack’s bruised flesh. Bruce’s cheeks burn with shame when he realizes that some of the bite marks will scar. He shuts off the water, pats Jack dry, then makes him sit on the toilet lid as he disinfects and dresses each wound. Silence stretches between them, ringing and empty.
When he is finished, Bruce retrieves Jack’s clothes. The shirt is a lost cause and so he gives Jack one of his own, pulling it over Jack’s shoulders and buttoning it up. He forces his fingers not to linger. Jack tilts his head, trying to meet Bruce’s eyes but Bruce steps back, letting his hands fall away. He keeps his eyes resolutely lowered.
He is afraid of what he might do if he looks at Jack right now.
Bruce goes over to his desk and writes something down on his personalized stationary. He hands the note to Jack. Jack doesn’t look at it, doesn’t take his eyes off of Bruce’s distressed face, forcing Bruce to explain. “It’s my cell phone number. If you ever need it.”
Jack tucks the piece of paper into his pocket. Bruce does not watch him leave.
Jack never calls.
***
Bright colors, lights, press of people. Pushing past the crowd, fear clogging his throat, hitting the cool night air and pulling in deep calming breaths. A broad hand on his back, and a horrible sense of foreboding as a man steps out of the shadows, something gleaming in his hand.
The nightmare unspools behind Bruce’s eyes, familiar horror catching in his chest as he lunges forward, mouth open in a silent scream. Each step feels like walking in quicksand, breath burning in his lungs and he stretches forward, reaching, reaching… Pop. Poppoppop. The retort of the gun is deafening. Bruce watches his parents crumple. His knees give way, shock and sorrow bearing him down. He reaches out, touching the still, cold forms and then the figures morph and it is Rachel and Jenny lying in front of him, their faces ghastly white, the eyes of the little girl open to stare accusingly up into his. He couldn’t save them. He couldn’t save any of them--
He starts awake, covered in sweat.
And starts again at the unmistakable sound of a revolver’s cylinder flicking into place. Bruce jerks around to see Joker sitting in the chair opposite him, coolly flipping the cylinder open again. It hits the frame and he spins it with a whir, looking down the site before flicking it back into place. He thumbs the hammer back with an audible ‘click’ and points the gun at Bruce.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he chirps, his voice full of cheerful menace.
He’s got his facepaint back on. White greasepaint gleams in the dim light, the garish red slash of his smile twisting. Bruce very carefully turns fully toward him, setting both of his feet on the floor.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about that scene back in your Bathole,” Joker says conversationally. “All those broken toys and stuff.” He gestures widely with the gun in his hand. “You’ve had people die on you before. You’ve even taken the blame for their deaths before. So, I’ve been thinking, what’s so different about this time?” He pauses.
“And I’m thinking it’s that.” Joker extends his arm, pointing the gun at Bruce’s right knee.
Bruce’s eyes slit fractionally, jaw tightening. It’s all the confirmation Joker needs. He sets the gun down on the end table and stands, leaning heavily on his right leg. His gaze is a threat that heats every part of Bruce’s body at once. Bruce stands as well. They both pause, the length of the room between them, and the moment stretches-the air humming with anticipation. Their eyes lock. Joker bares his teeth in a feral smile.
They both spring forward at once. They go down in a tangle of limbs, rolling as Joker’s chattering laughter swells up. Joker’s fists connect with his torso in a rain of frantic blows. Bruce’s head swims. It feels like coming home. Bruce twists underneath him, bridging up for a counterattack. Skin and bone connect under his fists with a cracking sound. Joker tips his head back, giggling, blood dripping from his open mouth. Bruce raises his fist again, his other hand grasping the lapel of Joker’s purple jacket. He stuffs his fist into Joker’s face, punches and hits and grinds up into him mindless to anything but tearing the madman apart.
Joker’s hands seize Bruce’s wrists. He uses his body weight to push Bruce’s arms to the floor, pinning him. “Now now, that is enough of our usual foreplay,” he drawls.
Joker leans forward, placing a soft kiss on Bruce’s lips. He pulls back, grip as tight as iron on Bruce’s wrists, and then bends again and pushes his tongue into Bruce’s mouth.
Bruce’s head swims-the endorphins from the fight and the banked desire filling his veins with blood-soaked sand. Joker’s hips move coyly, grinding into the one’s beneath him. Bruce cannot help the way he gasps into Joker’s mouth, the awareness of his erection, swollen and pressed against Joker’s own, blotting out his reason for a moment.
Joker uses the moment to shift away, releasing Bruce’s wrists and sits up. Bruce attempts to follow but is pushed back down by strong hands. The point of a knife keeps him down, Joker’s blade pressing into the soft skin of his throat. Joker’s other hand picks at the front of Bruce’s shirt, parting the fabric. His nails prick Bruce’s skin as he trails them down Bruce’s chest and pops open the button on his fly. He shifts his weight off Bruce, the pressure of the knife never easing, and uses his other hand to take off Bruce’s pants and boxers.
When Bruce is naked, Joker’s warm hands slide under Bruce, urging him to turn over. Bruce does, brain in a vertigo. Joker leans close to whisper in his ear, “Now, be a good bat and don’t move.”
He pats Bruce’s cheek affectionately and rolls off of Bruce.
There is the sound of undressing. Bruce stays where he is. The pressure in his head is building. His body feels heavy and slow. Guilt and pain are dead weights in his chest, but it’s okay. It’s okay. He is safe and he is being cared for. The thought that it is Joker who is providing this respite only proves to Bruce how wrong he is.
Batman is over. It’s all over.
There is a slight rustling sound behind him. That is all the warning he has before Joker’s walking stick cracks smartly against his bare shoulders. Bruce hisses in pain and shock, automatically lifting himself on his arms, but Joker’s foot plants between his shoulder blades, pushing him back down.
“No,” he says, drawing the vowel out chidingly. “It’s time for you to take your medicine.”
Understanding comes in a rush and his mouth goes dry. Joker removes his foot and Bruce shifts, pulling his arms into his body, squaring up his back. He hears Joker’s breathy chuckle.
“Yeah, you get it,” he says, trailing a hand teasingly down Bruce’s spine.
And then the walking stick crashes down again, obliterating every thought from Bruce’s mind. Bruce gasps with the first few blows-he cannot believe how much it hurts. Each blow feels like fire bursting under his skin. Joker is not holding back at all, beating him with all the strength of his whipcord body behind him, the heavy wooden stick raining blows over the skin of his back, his ass, his thighs.
Bruce squirms and cries out, tears prinking behind his eyelids. Joker chose not to tie him up, Bruce realizes. He wants Bruce to be able to move, to respond, to submit himself to this. To take his punishment.
It goes on and on, the pain searing him, scorching into every cell until there is no escaping it. He welcomes the pain, feeling with each strike the pressure around his heart easing. Dopamine dumps into his veins, his senses shutting out one by one until all that exists is the feeling of the blows lavishing his body. Bruce howls and sobs and he takes it. He takes everything that Joker is giving him, feeling cleansed with each stroke.
After an endless time, the blows abate. Bruce hears the walking stick clatter to the carpet, and Joker’s low grunt as he kneels beside Bruce’s battered body. His fingers stroke through Bruce’s hair, cupping his flushed, upturned cheek. Bruce feels a warm tongue lapping up his tears and he turns, exposing his entire face to Joker’s questing tongue. The licks give way to lingering kisses. Joker sucks at his lips, mouth clinging and Bruce kisses back, desperate and hungry. His arms tingle from where they have been pinned to his chest, but he raises them the moment he regains feeling, pulling Joker closer. The jagged landscape of that ruined mouth is so familiar. Joker moans into the kiss and Bruce pulls back.
A crest of indefinable emotion rises in his chest as he gazes into Joker’s face.
“It’s done,” Joker says, cradling him. “You’re square now, you understand?”
Bruce nods. Yes, he’s square. The guilt that has been driving him for days has finally eased. Bruce hasn’t felt this human in years.
He feels himself smiling at Joker, and Joker smiles back and cups Bruce’s face in his hands again. He kisses Bruce unhurriedly, hands lingering in Bruce’s hair, trailing teasingly down his chest to circle over his nipples. He pulls Bruce over him, and Bruce presses their hips together, Joker’s cock wet against his own. It is all so familiar-the way the man beneath him moves, the way his fingers twist inside Bruce, the way their bodies fit together. Bruce takes him inside, rides him as Joker’s nails graze the welts on his back, making him moan and shiver. Joker’s hand strokes Bruce’s cock with perfect pressure, the tempo slow and then faster as Bruce’s movements become more frantic. It is all so familiar, and so sweet.
Bruce cries out when he comes, clutching the man beneath him close. “Jack,” he murmurs into blonde curls and the man beneath him shudders and moans and does not deny it.
***
”Bruce, I don’t suppose there is any way I can convince you not to come?” Rachel’s head tips down, dark hair spilling over her shoulder.
The manor’s driveway looks the same as it’s looked since Bruce can remember. He recalls running across the crisp gravel after Rachel, sifting for arrowheads in the garden. He remembers cutting across the lawn and jogging up the drive after a long, languorous day of swimming with Jack. He remembers the way the rain made the driveway gleam when he left here two years ago. These memories filter through his mind, but they do not stir his resolve.
The gun in his pocket is a steady weight. He feels calm and ready.
“Someone at this proceeding should stand for my parents.”
Rachel winces and argues with him, but Bruce knows it all. Knows that Joe Chill made a bargain with the DA. Knows that his testimony will help put Falcone behind bars. Knows that Chill will never live to give that testimony.
They drive to the courthouse in silence.
The parole hearing is a nightmare. Too many reporters, too much false sympathy. Bruce wishes for the millionth time that Jack was here. Bruce had tried to find him, to say goodbye. He found the apartment empty, no forwarding address, no way to contact him. Maybe it’s better this way. He knows that Jack will understand what he has to do.
Bruce follows Chill out of the courtroom, retrieving the gun he had stashed under Rachel’s car. Reporters are clogging the exits, circling for a story. One recognizes him and clears a path between him and Chill, eager for a confrontation. Bruce’s heartbeat quickens, his breath coming in short gasps. He grasps the loaded gun tightly. His vision telescopes down to a pinpoint, every cell in his body straining toward his revenge.
He does not even see the blonde step into his path until it is too late.
“Hey Chill,” she says. “Falcone says hi!” She thrusts a gun at Chill’s chest and fires. Chill falls. Reporters scream and scramble back as police scramble forward. In the melee, the blonde woman turns and Bruce feels a flash of recognition. And then she’s gone, police pursuing on foot, and Rachel is pulling him away.
They get into the car. Bruce is numb. “All these years I’ve wanted to kill him,” he says lowly, “And now he’s gone. Now I can’t.”
“You don’t mean that,” Rachel says, and it strikes Bruce then how little she truly understands him.
“I do,” he argues grimly. “Chill killed my parents. They deserve justice.”
“You’re not talking about justice,” she argues. “You’re talking about revenge!”
“They’re the same,” he tells her. She looks at him, appalled, and he can feel her slipping away from him. “Rachel, your system of justice is broken. Don’t you see that?” He is desperate to make her understand, to still have one person who understands.
“Don’t you tell me that! I’m trying every day to fix the system, while you use your grief as an excuse to do nothing!” She stops the car, gesturing out the window. “Look at this city, Bruce. Look! It’s rotting from the inside, and you know why? Because men like Falcone run this city. Joe Chill wasn’t the disease; he’s just a symptom. No one wants to deal with the real problem. Falcone may not have killed your parents, but he has destroyed everything they stood for.”
Rachel rolls the car into the street and gestures at the club opposite them. “Everyone knows where to find Falcone, but no one will touch him. They are either too scared or they’re working for him. Like your friend Jack.”
Bruce starts. “How do you-“
“Everyone knows it, Bruce. He’s too low-level for my office to go after him, and I’ve tried to keep it that way for your sake, but the path he’s on…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry Bruce, but he’s not a good man.”
And Bruce could almost laugh. “You think I am?” He pulls the gun from his sleeve. “I was going to kill Chill myself.”
Rachel stares at him in shocked silence for a moment. Her hand lashes out then, slapping him once-twice-tears flowing down her face. She points at the gun in his hand.
“Your father would be so ashamed,” she says. The words cut him to the quick, because they are true. His father hated violence. He built his legacy on creating peace. But building peace is impossible in a world like this one. There is no fairness in this world, Bruce tells himself. All his money, all his fame and charm is useless in the face of such injustice. Bruce opens the door and stumbles out onto the pavement. Rachel guns the car, leaving him behind.
His mind goes back to the blonde reporter, and that flash of recognition, and he looks down at the gun in his hand. He remembers the gun in Chill’s hand wavering as he holds it on Bruce’s parents, his eyes wide with fright and greed. And he realizes that Rachel is right. Chill was never the problem.
He turns toward the club. The bouncers try to stop him, but a wad of cash gains him entrance. Falcone is there, seating amongst the elite like a spider in a web. Bruce’s eyes scan over him, taking in the details, but he is not here for him. He waits, not knowing how he knows but he does know. And sure enough, he hears that familiar laugh braying out. He leaves the lobby, skirting the tables and following the sound into the kitchen. Jack is leaning against the back wall. He’s ditched the blonde wig, but is still wearing a grey skirt and women’s makeup. The disguise would never hold up to close scrutiny, but Bruce supposes he didn’t need a lot of time-just an opportunity.
This is what is happening in Bruce’s conscious mind. But underneath it, his emotions are going haywire-two years of frustrated longing and enraging silence tangling in his chest.
Bruce’s stride doesn’t slow as he makes for the man. Some of the kitchen staff bristle, but Jack holds up a hand to stop them. “It’s fine,” he drawls. “Just an old friend coming to say hello.”
Bruce wants to rip him apart, but he waits until Jack pulls him out the door and into the dark alley.
“I take it you’re here to have a chat about-“
“How could you do that to me?” Bruce interrupts. His fury is a red blot against his vision. He lashes out, his fist connecting with Jack’s cheek. Jack sways, but doesn’t fall. “He was mine!”
“Oh and what were you gonna do, huh? Shoot him in front of a hundred witnesses? Oh that was a great plan! Real swell.”
“Fuck you! You fucking asshole!” Bruce hits him again, and this time Jack stumbles back into the wall, laughing as his head hits the bricks. “You had no right!”
“I had every right, sweetheart,” he giggles. “Both personally and, ah- professionally.”
Bruce pauses, disappointment a crushing weight. “The mob? Jesus, how can you? You hate them.”
“Oh please,” Jack shoots back. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know. What did you think I was doing, Brucie, huh? Selling cars? Not all of us want to flunk out of the entire Ivy League to work in Daddy’s company.”
“Don’t you fucking throw that in my face. I didn’t ask for that, and I don’t want it.”
Jack sneers. “What do you want, then?”
And the devastating truth is, he wants Jack.
But he cannot--cannot--have him like this.
“I want you to leave. I want you out of Gotham.”
Jack laughs in his face. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
“Then I’ll go,” Bruce says and his voice is cold.
“Don’t,” Jack seethes. “Don’t even say that.”
But the decision has already been made. Jack must see it in Bruce’s eyes because he springs forward, pushing Bruce back into the wall, his whole body pinning Bruce to the cold brick. Bruce tries to push him off, but Jack’s grip is inescapable. “You and me-we don’t choose. We get chosen. Do you understand me?”
And Bruce does, of course he does. He can’t help what he feels for Jack, can’t help the sick rush of desire that overtakes him, even now. After everything Jack has done to him, Bruce should despise him. He does despise him. But the simple truth is that it doesn’t matter. He belongs to Jack, as surely as the other man belongs to him. Nothing can change that.
“I hate you,” Bruce whispers, half-wonderingly.
Jack smiles at him. “I hate you too, darling.”
In a flash of insight, Bruce realizes what he must do. The idea has been growing, slowly taking root in his brain for years. There is no fairness in this world, and nothing that he can do about it. He is useless as Bruce Wayne. But perhaps he can choose to become something more.
He smiles back at Jack, leaning in to place a kiss on his forehead.
“I’ll be back,” he tells him.
It is a promise.
***
“I don’t think I can take another Gotham winter,” Joker says. They are still in the boathouse, crowded into the tiny bathroom. Bruce’s wounds have been tenderly cared for and now he sits on the lowered toilet seat, watching as a shirtless Joker takes a wet washcloth to the greasepaint on his face.
“No?”
Bruce’s eyes follow the movements of his hands as Joker swipes the cloth against his cheek, revealing a bit of pink skin. His back is a pale expanse broken by scars, the faded half-circle of a bite mark clearly visible on his right shoulder blade. Bruce watches the muscles moving under Joker’s skin as he works. His mind is calm and untroubled. The skin of his back throbs, but the pain makes him feel solid. Balanced. He feels a smile crawl over his face as Joker grimaces, rubbing futily at the black paint under his eyes.
“Nope,” Joker tells him, turning on the tap and running the rag under it. “I think,” he pauses as he runs the washcloth over his mouth, more and more of his face revealed to Bruce’s gaze. “I think I want to go someplace warm. Maybe Hawaii.”
“That is just an excuse for you to wear a flowered shirt.”
Joker-Jack-snorts. “As if I need an excuse. Tijuana then.”
Bruce shakes his head. “I’ve been there. The food is good but it’s a total shithole.”
Jack cants his head, regarding him. “Have you been to Jamaica?” It is couched as an innocuous question, but Bruce can clearly hear the other question beneath it.
Bruce thinks for a moment. “I’d like to.”
A smile twists across Jack’s face. “Good,” he says. He reaches out and places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing a bit before going back to lean over the sink, continuing to unmask himself. He catches Bruce’s eyes in the mirror. “That’s good.”
***
Bruce rarely thinks about Jack in the years that he is away from Gotham. He is too busy surviving, learning, honing his skills into a weapon that can be wielded against injustice.
Seven years later, Jim Gordon hands Batman a playing card, encased in plastic.
“Got a taste for theatrics. Like you…”he says.
Bruce feels his heart constrict, fear and hope and longing planting claws in his chest.
“I’ll look in to it,” he says, and disappears into the night.
***
Bruce is thirty-five years old when he meets Jack again.
They have never been out of each other’s orbits, not really. But now, they are beginning to fit their lives around each other.
It is slow going. They have years to make up for. And there are still sore spots-wounds that never healed quite right. They try to talk and to understand each other and, when that fails, they go at each other with fists and teeth until the truth pours out.
It works.
Because the thing is…something is wrong with Bruce.
But it’s nothing that they can’t make right together.
***
~Fin.