and here we goooo
Title: Immediate and Morbid Curiosity
Fandom: Batman [Nolanverse]
Pairing: Bruce Wayne/The Joker
Rating: NC-17? Ish?
Warnings: Sex. Uh. Wrestling? Knives? Shouldn't that kinda be a given for this pairing, really?
Disclaimer: B-man, his secret identity crisis, and Mistah J are not mine. Thanks, Bob Kane/Chris Nolan/et all!
Notes: for the batmankink meme, except I went completely, bafflingly overboard (6799 words).
Prompt: Bruce is enjoying a quiet meal at a high-class restaurant, when he spots a very familiar face-sans-greasepaint, pristinely suited, and with a high-class date-at another table.
Sometimes Bruce Wayne leaves the ballerinas behind; sometimes supermodels are no fun to eat with; sometimes Alfred needs a day off; sometimes protein powders don't quite cut it. Batman can live off vitamins and protein supplements when he's busy--and Batman is always busy, so much so that he mostly forgets to eat, and Bruce sometimes idly wonders if Batman would actually need to eat if there wasn't a kernel of Bruce inside him--but Bruce, on occasion, just wants a damned fine steak. It's strange to be Bruce Wayne and be out alone, but Bruce Wayne is never really alone. He might have come to the restaurant by himself, but there has been a steady stream of people stopping at his table for a few minutes at a time. Most of them are people who fancy themselves to be nearly his friends; some just hope to be. Some are more ambitious.
He ordered oysters and shared them with a lovely model-turned-photographer, with a low sultry voice and heavily lined eyes. She wants to shoot him, and he knows that she isn't nearly high profile enough for that, not yet, not as a working artist, but she wants to transition and she's talking at an intense murmur about how she will show his inner truth and find the beauty behind his eyes, and if Bruce were the type of man to laugh loudly, he would be doing so.
Instead, he smiles, and for a reckless moment is tempted to take her up on her offer. He doesn't, and he knows he won't, and anyway, he's smiling a polite little smile at her and she's still talking.
"We could drape you in white," she's saying, "To show the altruistic, the purity, the openness, the honesty you have as Gotham's favorite son, and behind you to represent Gotham herself--"
He misses the next part of the pitch because someone does laugh, long and loud, cutting through the high class subdued chatter. For a second Bruce thinks it sounds like he feels, but he doesn't smile indulgently at the thought. Instead his head is up and scanning the dimly lighted plush interior of the restaurant, eyes sharp, something in him needing to find the source of the laughter, urgently, before he's even fully aware of the fact that he's looking.
Once his eyes find it, Bruce knows why he was looking.
The man is blond, and slender in his perfectly fitted, faintly pin striped suit. The colors are dark, save for the startling green of his tie. There is a faint pattern on his shirt. The face is a curiously a handsome one--
No; the face is a handsome one, no disclaimers needed, all clear skin (so very clear, and even, too even, Bruce thinks) and high cheekbones. The only reason it's curiously so is that Bruce draws the scars back on it, then the face paint, and his gut is crawling with what has to be disgust, but also a certain immediate and morbid curiosity.
He wouldn't have thought that the Joker could dress up and pretend to be a person.
Belatedly, he realizes that the part of him that's always Batman has memorized the color and cut of the Joker's tie and gloves (they are the only strange thing about the outfit, the gloves; the tie is tied in a tidy pratt knot) before the part of him that's Bruce notices the drop down dead gorgeous woman that the Joker is apparently wining and dining.
Those gloved hands touch the woman's delicate wrist for a moment, and the Joker leans in, smiling. His date (Date? The Joker has a DATE? Has he threatened her mother with a knife or kidnapped her boyfriend or rigged her dog with explosives to get her here?) smiles back at him, leaning forward as well, bowing her head before her gaze flicks back up, obviously flirtatious. Either she's never been fond of her mother/boyfriend/dog, or she is a brilliant actress in on some soon to be crime, or she is actually enjoying herself.
Better to think that there is a crime brewing here, something awful. Chaos has to be the only thing that brings the Joker out to play; he can't possibly be dating models for...for...for fun. The idea that the Joker might have an idea of fun that doesn't involves knives or gunpowder sickens Bruce, deep down in his gut, and if Bruce was just Bruce his skin would be breaking out into goose bumps at the sheer revulsion he feels.
But maybe the Joker is thinking about knives, maybe this woman needs to be saved, and Batman needs to...
Batman can't be here right now, and Bruce Wayne can't take a man down for having lunch, for fuck's sake. Bruce Wayne, in full view of all these people, can't take a man down at all.
It is then, as he is trying to figure out how to sneak away, get the suit, and come back in time to trail the Joker, that he realizes that the would be photographer is still talking.
"Hnm?" he says.
"Unless you think the Madonna symbolism is too much?" she says, apologetic and slightly uncertain.
"Hnm," he says again, to sound thoughtful.
"You're right, you're right," she says, pressing her generous lips together until they form a thin line, "You have excellent instincts. Maybe we can discuss the particulars later, hammer out a concept you like."
"Mmm," he says, to let her read it as neutral or encouraging, whichever she wants, "I'll give you my card." A sudden flash of inspiration. "Care to be walked back to your table?"
She smiles.
"I was just on my way out, actually," she says, and she's going through her purse, pulling out her own card, handing it to Bruce. He stands, links his arm with hers, guides her towards the door in a trajectory which takes him right by the Joker's table. His eyes flicker over the pair, nothing too obvious, but the Joker glances up and meets Bruce's gaze. There's a quick moment, a fraction of a second, and then he's apparently dismissed. The Joker turns back to the woman.
The prosthetics are good, very good. It's something pliant enough to bend with the expressions on the Joker's face, to make the smile look normal, but firm enough to fill up the scars.
Bruce takes a slightly different route on the way back, looking as vaguely amused as Bruce Wayne always does, a playboy smirk at his lips, and he doesn't raise his eyes to where the Joker can meet him, instead using the second trip to check the lines of the suit, to see if there any (poorly?) hidden weapons. Nothing catches his eye and he notes that the predatory slouch is gone. Nearly immediately he'd noticed the lack of the usual tics and twitches, but he hadn't expected this easy straight posture. He is sure, all the same, that this is the right man.
The small, protesting part of Bruce that doesn't want to make a scene, that just wants to sit down and finish his meal like a normal person, is trying to come up with alternate explanations. Just one of those faces? Estranged twin brother? Lab grown clone?
He cuts another slice of steak, and as he brings the fork to his mouth, he glances up.
The man that has to be the Joker is staring right at him.
That's fine. The Joker knows Bruce Wayne's face. Bruce Wayne has no reason to know this man. No reason to worry. Bruce lets his eyes travel elsewhere, like he didn't really notice anything. He eats.
When he looks up again, the Joker is laughing and touching the woman on the shoulder, but his head turns around quickly, like he feels Bruce looking. Bruce drops his eyes before he's caught.
He eats mechanically. He no longer tastes the steak.
The third time he looks up, the Joker licks his lips.
Bruce hears himself describe it like that in his head, but it isn't what the phrase usually implies: there's nothing sensual about it. There isn't anything that looks nervous about it, either, because there is never any uncertainty in the Joker's eyes when he does it. This time is no exception, and it's chilling to see the darkness of those unwavering eyes without the black paint around them; jarring to see how the tongue leaves the mouth to touch bare skin and not slut red and clown white. The tic is so essentially Joker that Bruce knows he's right, knows that he never really doubted.
The man is dangerous; the man is a menace; the man needs to not be here with all these normal, real people. This man is also Batman's greatest enemy; Bruce cannot risk becoming known to him.
But he sees the Joker exaggeratedly mime out a telephone, hand reaching out again to brush against the woman's neck. He drops his eyes but he can feel the Joker getting up, and his eyes drag themselves up in time to see the elaborate saunter towards his table. The lips purse, the eyebrows raise, and the head tilts, pointing. The Joker is humming and his hands are in his pockets, and he turns to walk towards where Bruce knows the male restrooms to be.
There's an easy confidence in that walk, like he knows Bruce will follow, or maybe he just doesn't care.
Bruce hesitates.
He crosses his legs. Uncrosses.
There's a steak knife tucked into his black dress sock now, and he gets up and goes to the bathroom.
When he steps through the door, he hears the humming, faint and unrecognizable. The Joker is tucking an errant strand of blond hair behind his ear in front of the mirror, though he turns when Bruce comes in.
"See something you like, sweets?" he drawls.
Bruce smiles, the affable, unsuspecting smile of Bruce Wayne.
"Just here to use the sink."
"Don't let me stop you," the Joker says, and the voice is not the one on the videos on the news, not the one Batman has heard say why would I want to kill you? The grating nasal tone is gone, and the weirdly incorrect inflections, the stresses on all the wrong syllables, is...there's a ghost of it that's been left behind, but that's all. It isn't enough to place the voice if you're not looking for it.
Bruce steps up to the sink and slowly washes his hands, eyes dropped so he isn't watching the Joker watching him.
There's the sound of foot steps and Bruce knows the next sound he will hear is that of the door being locked, but he does nothing to stop it. When he raises his eyes to the mirror, he sees the Joker standing behind him.
"The woman you're with," he says casually, sounding for all the world unconcerned, "How do you know her?"
"Oh, does Bruce Wayne likey likey?" the Joker asks, and Bruce watches, fascinated, as he grins. His teeth look decent. The strangeness of it makes Bruce feel almost dizzy, like the spinning world he's on is unreal; and that in and of itself seems wrong, that his concept of this man is so vividly detailed that decent teeth are unsettling. "I met her through--work, you might say. Lovely girl. Why do you ask?"
"She's very beautiful," Bruce says with a shrug, "I make it my business to be aware of beautiful women. That's all." He does not react to being called Bruce Wayne; he knows that Bruce Wayne is used to being recognized, and should never be surprised. Bruce Wayne is featured on tabloids.
Of course: so is Batman.
"Uh huh. So all the staring at little ole me that you were doing--that's, ah, what, some dominance thing? Some alpha...wolf...thing?"
If Bruce Wayne were only Bruce Wayne, he'd be uncomfortable enough to no longer have his back turned to this man. As it stands, however, Bruce just shrugs in the mirror and runs a hand through his dark hair, looking bored, preening.
"I wouldn't over think it," he said.
"Nnn," the Joker says, because one gloved finger is tapping against his slightly bared teeth. He looks thoughtful, like any predator looks thoughtful; thoughtful like a wolf sizing up a moose, wondering if that moose is worth the effort to chase. Except no wolf would take down a moose alone, but a clown will launch himself at a bat. But when is a Bat not a bat?
"Good talking to you," Bruce quips, and he's gliding across the floor and his hand reaches up to twist the lock back open--
There's a hand on his wrist. The grip is tight, and the leather of the glove is thin.
"If you wanted to stay and talk, all you had to do was ask," says Bruce, ever friendly, ever easy going. His tone is level. It is as if he does not know that the man so close to him is a psychopath. He can't know. He's not supposed to know.
"Splendid," the Joker says, not loosening his grip on Bruce's wrist at all, "Just splendid, Brucey. I'm glad. So glad." A pause. "You keep staring at my cheeks, Brucey-Brucey." The voice was low and dangerous for a moment, but a grin suddenly lights up his face (It is ghastly, Bruce thinks, how normal it looks). "Pumpkin wanna kiss?" He tilts his head, leaning in, offering his cheekbone.
"Much as I like blondes as a general rule, I'm afraid I'll have to decline," Bruce says, all mock sighs (can Bruce Wayne be seen taking down a man for flirting? Would it be bad press? Bruce Wayne has these concerns) and faux regret. "You're not quite my type. So if you'll excuse me--"
"No," the Joker says, response immediate and flat, with that curious lack of affect he sometimes has, the one that he compensates for by having too much emphasis the rest of the time, "I don't think so, Bruce."
Well, fuck--but then, he hadn't expected it to work anyway.
The finger tapping against his mouth has suddenly been replaced by a knife point tapping at his teeth, almost absently. Bruce can see twisted gears turning in that head: the Joker isn't quite uncertain, no, because that would imply a lack of self confidence--he'd have to care about being wrong. The Joker is, however, curious.
"Hey, hey," Bruce says, holding up a hand, "There's no need for that, pal." Play the fool. Offer what he'd expect: nothing he wants. "Is it, what is it, is it money? You can have everything I have on me."
"You didn't flinch," the Joker says mildly, ignoring him, "When you saw the knife."
Bruce says nothing and looks confused, and maybe he oversells it because the Joker laughs, yes, and, there, there, it's almost the sound he remembers, but not quite. When he finishes he's yanking Bruce sideways and then forcing him against the wall, keeping his hand pinned. Then, slowly, almost delicately, the knife is fitted against his mouth.
"Your eyes aren't afraid," the Joker swallows messily, and his shoulders, Bruce notes, are sliding back into that predatory slouch, that hyena lean, that posture of a rabid, hungry something ready to lunge for a throat. "I, uh, I'm something of an ex-pert on these things, you know. This isn't how I'd have expected this to work." Inexplicably, the knife relents, but then it traces a delicate line out of the side of his mouth, down to his jaw, then to his neck.
"Expect? I've never seen you before in my life," Bruce breathes. It would be so easy to bleed out right now. He stays very, very still. This is why Batman protects his neck. In a larger sense, this is why Batman is Batman: there are men in the world that use knives or guns to get what they want. Batman is not afraid.
Bruce, however, is...bordering on a little anxious, maybe. It's not enough to pass for normal, apparently.
Amusement flickers in the Joker's eyes.
"No, huh? You suuuuure?"
"I'd remember," Bruce says, earnestly. He widens his eyes some, as innocent and harmless as a golden scaled bubble eyed goldfish.
The Joker laughs again, hard enough to make his body roll like a wave, and so the knife digs in a little. The madman can't seem to catch his breath for a second, and he's gasping still when he grins.
"Oh, you're funny--much funnier than--well. Maybe too funny. Just as ridiculous, though. If you're, y'know. If. If not, it's not as funny."
"What?" Bruce asks, gasping a little himself, twisting away from the knife, slightly, trying to make his eyes look afraid, trying to keep his body slack, trying to not let muscle memory alone disarm the manic in front of him.
"Oh, such a straight man," the Joker mocks, tossing his hair back, "Just what every comedian needs. Not quite my style, a little more bumbling than I like, but it's still so good." His eyes gleam, and maybe he plays a word association game in his head. "What does Bruce Wayne do, hm, locked in bathroom stalls with strange men?"
"Get held up at knife point?" Bruce suggests. There's no excuse for it: there's a certain amount of self loathing in the comment, flippant thing it may be, smart ass as it sounds. Who is this Bruce guy, anyway, and why is he dumb enough to be here?
The Joker snickers. He hears not the words nor the tone, but something else entirely.
"Self disgust isn't really a turn on for me, traditionally," he informs Bruce, in an easy, conversational tone, "Except. Well. Maybe it's starting to be." The knife moves and turns, the sharpness of it wielded with a delicacy that makes only a faint line of blood spring up in its wake. Bruce swallows thickly.
The Joker watches, dark eyes indecipherable.
Batman would head butt him and break his nose and then take away his knife.
Bruce waits. Inside him, Batman waits, too. He doesn't move. The man pressed against him must get nothing from him; or, at least, Bruce can't give him anything.
The buttons of Bruce's fine shirt are rendered meaningless as the villian across from him slices and cuts the collar of his shirt open, exposing more throat. Bruce's neck is well formed but thick, a neck that might be strong from wrestling or weights or a work out routine that includes dressing up as a giant armored bat and gliding off buildings.
"The punchline," the Joker is saying, leaning in closer, hot breath on Bruce's face, "To this joke is either--" the knife nicks him harder, but it's at his collarbone, so it just hurts rather than endangering him, "Very awfully awful..." he giggles, "Or really...really...good."
"When do we find out?" Bruce whispers.
The Joker gives him a look, then rolls his eyes heavenwards.
"Hopefully never. Certainty is for the fishies, Brucey."
Bruce slugs him in the middle, fist angled up to get the impact behind the rib and into the liver. It's different without the gauntlets: he's much faster when he isn't weighed down. The twist of his hips is faster, too, without the armor to restrict his movement ever so slightly. The style should be different--nothing too fancy, when it's just Bruce--but he is allowed a certain amount of easy agility.
As expected, there's a moment and then the Joker slides down to the floor: body shot knockouts are highly underrated. Pain's easy to laugh off, but momentary organ failure is something a body takes seriously. Nonetheless, the few gasps of air the Joker manages are all being used up to make these eerie little huffs of laughter, even as he's sprawled on the floor. The knife is still in his hand, but barely; the grip of his fingers is weak.
Bruce leans over and plucks it out of his fingers. While he's at it he does a quick frisk; he ends up with three more knives. They're more discreet than the Joker's usual; folders and assisted openers instead of big fixed blades.
Weapons confiscated, Bruce retreats, eying the Joker warily. He's been waiting for the man to spring up and conjure another weapon out of thin air, but the Joker seems content to lie on the floor and wheeze with quiet laughter.
"And where did you learn how to do that, hmm?"
"Boxing gym," Bruce says coolly, because it's an acceptable rich boy place to go, thing to do, skill to know.
"Where they teach you to go for the liver?"
"I have workout tapes," Bruce says vaguely, "Are we done yet?"
(must be good tapes)
The Joker finally scrambles to his feet and Bruce circles, about to throw down the knives so he has his hands free for a takedown--
No, no. Bruce Wayne wouldn't throw down the knives. Bruce Wayne doesn't have the sacred respect of human life that Batman has, does he? Best to let the Joker think he doesn't, anyway.
He drops two knives only so he can open a third, and he holds it up, deliberately inexpertly.
"You must be a mind reader," the Joker drawls, before he gives a big dreamy sigh and bats his eyelashes, "This is just my kind of foreplay!"
"I'm not sure your date'll like that," Bruce quips, because it turns out he isn't as taciturn as Batman, "Maybe you should give her to me."
"Maybe I have other plans," the Joker hisses, and he rushes forward--yes, there, that's the right sort of disarm; it wouldn't work on Batman but maybe it should work on Bruce--
In the split second it takes to debate the point internally, the Joker knees him in the groin and takes back the knife roughly, shoving Bruce down. For good measure, he slams Bruce's head down into the floor. It's a classy establishment so even the bathrooms are nice--the slam hurts.
Maybe he's forgotten, a little, what getting kicked around without the suit is like. The suit doesn't make it easy--he admits he comes home covered in bruises and knicks; and for Batman, a bruise is something that probably takes up a solid forth of his body and a knick is something he'd (eventually!) bleed out of if left unattended. The suit does make it different, though, and Bruce hasn't fought like this in a very long time, bare knuckle, skin on skin because cloth doesn't register much at all, unless he's using someone's lapels to choke them out.
Head ringing, he shoves the Joker off him, muscles working partly on memory while his brain flicks back on. The Joker makes a surprised little noise that's still oh so smugly amused; the sound cuts into Bruce, clears his head. The Joker's back on him but he bucks his hips up high and twists, shrimping out, one hand down on the floor for balance as he swings on it, back up to his legs. They both drop into crouches now, circling. There isn't much room--there's an open area in front of the sinks, but eventually they're going to hit stalls. The Joker's still smiling, but his eyes are alert, and he doesn't quite have the unrestrained glee that flows through him when Batman's the one giving the punches.
Maybe, Bruce thinks, he just puts more effort into laughing when it's Batman, just to get under his cowl. Yes.
"Well, this is turning out to be a love-ly little lunch date," the Joker grins, "'My bathroom brawl with billionaire Bruce Wayne,' classy headline, doncha think?"
"Why are we fighting?" Bruce asks, exasperated. He should have known better than to follow him here. Instincts are sloshing together and making his nerves fire; it's tough to be Bruce Wayne right now. Anyone observing his position would agree, but for Bruce it's hard to be Bruce Wayne because he can be something else instead. The knife in this man's hand demands it.
"Because you can," the Joker supplies, and he's lunging for Bruce, knife out.
(Refuse. Don't answer the call. Take the bait and he wins.)
Bruce knocks his wrist aside at the last possible minute, and he can't stop himself from stepping just so and twisting the Joker's arm. It's a judo take down and the thinner man goes down hard, but now he's definitely laughing. Bruce thinks maybe they're done; they've reached the point where the Joker goes pliant and rag doll, too amused to continue the struggle, or convinced he's won some sort of ideological victory. The moment stretches out and Bruce moves to pin him down, but the Joker surges up once more and they roll on the floor, stopping only when they hit the wall.
The Joker, panting, has ended up on top, and his hands are busy pinning Bruce's hands over his head. It shouldn't be a stable position, but he knows how to use his limited weight, and that grip...
"It's all--" the Joker wriggles, and somehow Bruce knows that what he really wants to do is make a rolling gesture with his hand, but he can't afford to let Bruce go, "--signal detection theory, right? You might be a false alarm, Brucey-Brucey, but even a miss would be funny..."
The clown in civilian's clothing licks his lips, and unexpectedly quiets.
"...in a way," he finishes.
(he doesn't care if the joke is on him, as long as there's a joke)
Bruce tenses, ready to bridge his body up, turn the tables, start the struggle again--
But the Joker sinks in closer. It isn't that his body softens: it doesn't. It's that he rolls his hips into Bruce's, and keeps them chest to chest.
The moment stretches out like taffy, and Bruce thinks that's what his mind must be doing, too. The press of those hips against his isn't exaggerated and lascivious, which is what he would have guessed it would be like, if he'd been asked--not that anyone would--not that he's thought about it. It isn't cautious, either. It has this measured deliberateness, and that, as much as anything else, is confusing. The action is exactly what you'd expect it to be, not a parody of what it should be.
(Strange and stranger)
Bruce thinks his mind might be distorting itself out his ears, but his brain is working just fine. Exertion and closeness and friction and Bruce hasn't taken any of his superstar dates home in a long time, actually. His dick doesn't quite harden, but it lets Bruce know that it exists, which is betrayal enough. His body does not twitch, the lines of his face do not move: Bruce Wayne looks stern, like Bruce Wayne never should.
Something, maybe that, makes the Joker moan, slow and soft, in the back of his throat, and he cants his hips against Bruce's again, but his eyes look at his mouth carefully.
Bruce is in too much of a hurry to change the lines of his mouth to worry about how he does it, so his lips part. It isn't meant as an invitation, and he expects an invasion when lips brush his. Yet for whatever reason, the Joker keeps his tongue in his mouth, and he just nips at Bruce's bottom lip, and hums, something sing-songy. The lips press against his more fully, but it is curiously chaste.
A question forms in Bruce's mind, and Bruce is nothing if not a researcher, so he presses back, and it's his tongue that laps at the Joker's lips, softly stroking, slipping between--
Bruce gets a bite for his trouble. It's hard enough to bleed, but not as hard as he would have guessed. He figures the chance of being infected with something truly vile more than makes up for what it lacks in force.
"Ah-ah-ah," the Joker chides, "Naughty, naughty ducky, Bruce. Remember what I said? Certainty is for fishies. Are you a fishie?"
A sharp exhale on Bruce's part. To admit he wants to check for scars is to admit that he knows they're there is to admit--
"I just think it's rude to skip the kissing entirely," Bruce says, as if this isn't a completely bizarre situation, as if he's talking to an actual date that's going right, "Why aren't you a fan?"
"Most people it's rude to kiss with your eyes open," the Joker points out, and Bruce is guilty as charged, but who would let the Joker out of sight when he was so close to their face? "I think it's rude that you made me put down my knife."
"I think it's rude that you made me bleed," Bruce growls, but it's very carefully not a terribly deep growl, "Twice."
The Joker snickers, but his face comes closer again, and his lips are pressed to Bruce's and he sucks his tongue into his mouth, bobs up and down on it. He's practically fellating Bruce's tongue but still keeping it away from the inside of his own cheeks. His eyes are closed, and he seems entirely focused on tasting the blood, the kiss, the indescribable but tangible Bruce-yness of Bruce--and Bruce takes this as his cue to bridge up and roll them over.
Unfortunately, the Joker multitasks well and seems to understand momentum as well as he does and doesn't mind that their teeth clash, so they roll further, into the middle of the floor, and he shoves Bruce back down onto it hard enough to make his head bounce.
"Aren't you used to bleeding, Brucey?" the Joker asks languidly, like nothing has happened.
"No," Bruce says empathically.
(liar)
The Joker's snigger is lost as his mouth presses against the side of Bruce's neck, down to his shoulder--
Bruce knows what's coming and moves faster. Mouth sliding into position, he bites down on the spot where the neck ends. He bites higher up than the Joker does, but the Joker bites harder--but Bruce then squeezes his jaws tighter in response.
(Doesn't want to lose)
(no, no, no--he can't lose; there's a difference)
There's a tickling against the new throbbing on Bruce's neck, and it's spurts of muffled giggles interspaced with low groans.
"Oh, sweetheart, I was going to tell you it was rude to not make me bleed, but--"
Now.
Bruce moves fast and bucks; when the Joker's under him he slams them back down into position. The movement has shifted them across the floor, and the Joker's hand snakes out and grabs one of the discarded knives, too quick for Bruce to be sure of what's happening until cold metal is pressing into his neck again. The Joker wiggles under him, chortling, and it is in that shameful moment, when they're both breathing too fast, that Bruce notices that he's hard.
The infuriatingly happy hum is all Bruce hears under him for a moment, and then the Joker shrugs, smiles, and hooks one long leg behind Bruce's back. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, maybe, or perhaps it's just that this doesn't hurt his real goal, not at all.
Batman might be sexless but Bruce is not. Maybe it's the lack of a suit; maybe it is all in his head; maybe Bruce isn't too far removed to still--
"Have a thing for knives, maybe, Brucey?"
--get something out of violence in general.
Bruce growls and shoves the Joker into the floor again before forcefully claiming his mouth. So wrapped up is he in owning the kiss that he doesn't think to check for scars. That's not the point, and he knows that they are there, whatever game they might be playing. The Joker has steady hands and he is aware of Bruce's every movement; the knife recedes and returns, pressure held even, as easily if it were carried on a tide, and Bruce is the moon. Their hips rock together but the Joker never stops laughing, not really, it just turns up or down, like pressure in a hose. Bizarre as things are, Bruce thinks for a moment that the Joker doesn't want to hurt him, not really--
So of course that's when the knife digs in a bit more, and blood flows. It's not deadly, no, not nearly, but it's more than casual, and the Joker is hissing into Bruce's mouth. The knife gets tossed away and then strong and cruel fingers are digging into his hips, finding his belt, nimbly undoing it, attacking button and zipper--
Bruce spares a moment to knock the hands away, and then he's back to grinding into the man pressed against the floor. The grey space in his head between two names might be the only place he can consider this a victory, or even a fight at all, but there's a dark and desperate need pressing up against the back of his eyeballs. All those sleepless nights, all those lonely nights, all the skipped meals and cold bed sheets and romances that didn't--
So much of it is because of this man, but Bruce isn't allowed to display the hate Batman feels.
(Nor the mercy)
So he bites down again on the spot that's already sore and bleeding, and the Joker's breath stutters. Force the hate back down, put a cap on even the flirting specter of lethality as they are both doing, and they are left with something uncomplicated: frustration. Perhaps also curiosity.
The Joker's fingers are wandering again, free because Bruce is busy roughly dragging the pants down those sharp hips. A moment's spared for him to fit a finger in his mouth, and then his teeth get a hold of his glove and tug it off. The other follows. Hapless giggles and the Joker hooks his hand on the back of Bruce's neck, holding on for dear life (or something like it) as the laughter overtakes him and as Bruce slides--nonono, not slides, nothing so delicate--their cocks together.
(of course, he sets the pace; of course he does)
A gasp dies in his throat, and he tips his head back. Maybe he images the scent of rubber, leather, and kevlar, maybe he doesn't, but either way his newly bared fingers find the place where the blood ebbs (it hasn't slowed down, oh no) from Bruce's neck.
His fingers twist.
Bruce hisses, and pulls back just enough for a punch.
"Not the face," the Joker gasps, but of course he's still grinning and Bruce can't tell if he's serious; not that this is anything new.
"Quit that, or--" Bruce's mind blanks on threats, and not just because his skin is fizzing. It isn't like he's ever found one that works.
"Oh, stop, sweetness, reeeally," the Joker says, between panting, and there's a low whine from the back of his throat, "Don't bother." But his hands flutter at Bruce's shoulders instead, gripping there.
Bruce grunts in response, and the Joker shoots him a dubious look under his lashes before he arches back, pressing his hips home. They both let out shaky breaths, and then it's on in earnest.
They slide against each other, and the part of Bruce that's present wants to make this bloodier, while the part of him that's not quite absent feels dizzy. The Joker, for his part, has lost the self possession that Bruce noted when they were still at their tables: he is twitching and growling under Bruce, writhing erratic and lewd. They still mostly avoid each other's mouths, sucking and biting at their necks and shoulders. They switch positions a few more times, giving themselves all kinds of new bruises, courtsey of the floor, but they always end up with Bruce on top (barely).
Briefly, Bruce wonders if the point was the struggle and not the position, but for him, the position matters, or he thinks it does. At least, he does until they're both panting against each other's mouths and they're rocking together so close that it hurts.
The crescendo doesn't happen until the Joker clamps down on the wound at Bruce's neck and shoves his tongue into it, and then the laughter stops for a second as he swirls. Bruce gasps and sees stars, and even if he's turning his head to the side and wincing while the orgasm rides him in waves and slowly steals his senses for a second, he manages to shove the Joker off and down with a snarl, angry and true.
The Joker's head bounces off the tile, but that's not what does it, Bruce doesn't think. He kept his eyes on Bruce's face the whole time, at least until the snarl, and then his eyes close and his body stutters against Bruce's like a dying engine and he comes between them, hot and wet.
Bruce Wayne is used to holding on to someone gently for the aftershocks, so instinct doesn't make him move away immediately.
The only sound is their breathing slowing, at least until there's a tiny
"Heh."
Then Bruce rolls away from the sound.
They eye each other warily. The knives are flung every which way, off in corners, in stalls. No one goes for them. After a moment Bruce spares a second to glance down at his clothes, and he makes a face.
That gets a laugh, and then the Joker is dragging himself to his knees, scooting closer to the counter, where there is a basket of thick paper napkins. He takes a moment to fold one into a paper plane, tossing it at Bruce. It doesn't make it, so instead he throws some so that they flutter down around him.
They clean themselves up. Bruce notices the Joker stand, making faces at himself in the mirror, watching his cheeks carefully, but pretends he doesn't. In any case, he winces. There's a wad of paper towels at his neck, and it really would be better if the pressure kicked in and it stopped bleeding. Besides, there isn't a chance in hell a bleeding Bruce Wayne can make it through those doors bleeding and not be noticed. He looks at the Joker accusingly, still sitting slumped against the wall he retreated to.
A giggle.
"Watch!" The gloves are back on and the Joker rolls up the ends of his suit jacket. "Nothing up my sleeve..."
A scarf's pulled out of somewhere; Bruce is sharp eyed enough to catch it, but he didn't bother. He spares just enough effort to convey disdain.
The Joker giggles, and ignores him. He pulls Bruce to his feet and winds the scarf around his neck.
"There's more than one way to do a magic trick," he says, mock earnest.
"It's purple," Bruce says.
"So's your mother," the Joker says absently, patting down the ends of the scarf, making a thoughtful face and going through his pockets until he finds a safety pin. With exaggerated care, he pins Bruce's shirt more or less back in place. He runs his fingers through Bruce's hair. "That was fun."
Bruce makes a noncommittal noise, and the Joker is turning away, skittering after his knives. Not a one is pulled on Bruce; they are all tucked into various pockets.
"Your date's waiting," he mentions.
"So's your steak."
"What's her name?" Bruce persists. He needs to know who to look for; he needs to make sure she doesn't turn up missing
"Ah, the lovely miz Kyle. Yes." The Joker pats Bruce on the shoulder. "Don't worry; I'll think of you tonight."
Bruce wants to roll his eyes, but instead he said, tensely,
"No knives."
The Joker looks at him. He's quiet, but his eyes are laughing.
"I'm just saying," Bruce adds hastily, "Most girls don't go for that kind of thing." A beat. "Just a bit of advice."
"Right from the playboy's mouth," the Joker agrees. "Be seeing ya, Brucey-boy. I'd wait in here a bit if I were you. Wouldn't want to spread rumors, now would we?"
Bruce moves to block his path. The hook he throws is an easy thing; nothing exotic about it. It wouldn't be out of place in a run of the mill bar fight, and it glances off the Joker's cheekbone. His head snaps back, honey blond hair flying; his hand comes up quickly, and stays. The Joker cups his face in his hand, and lets his hair fall across it like a curtain.
He says nothing, but Bruce knows he's smiling. He unlocks the door and sweeps through it, still pressing his hand to his cheek.
Bruce stays in the bathroom for a long time, staring at himself in the mirror until he feels like he's gone into a trance. When he blinks back to himself, he decides to go home, sleep a little.
Batman is going to be busy tonight.
Fandom: Batman [Nolanverse]
Pairing: Bruce Wayne/The Joker
Rating: NC-17? Ish?
Warnings: Sex. Uh. Wrestling? Knives? Shouldn't that kinda be a given for this pairing, really?
Disclaimer: B-man, his secret identity crisis, and Mistah J are not mine. Thanks, Bob Kane/Chris Nolan/et all!
Notes: for the batmankink meme, except I went completely, bafflingly overboard (6799 words).
Prompt: Bruce is enjoying a quiet meal at a high-class restaurant, when he spots a very familiar face-sans-greasepaint, pristinely suited, and with a high-class date-at another table.
Sometimes Bruce Wayne leaves the ballerinas behind; sometimes supermodels are no fun to eat with; sometimes Alfred needs a day off; sometimes protein powders don't quite cut it. Batman can live off vitamins and protein supplements when he's busy--and Batman is always busy, so much so that he mostly forgets to eat, and Bruce sometimes idly wonders if Batman would actually need to eat if there wasn't a kernel of Bruce inside him--but Bruce, on occasion, just wants a damned fine steak. It's strange to be Bruce Wayne and be out alone, but Bruce Wayne is never really alone. He might have come to the restaurant by himself, but there has been a steady stream of people stopping at his table for a few minutes at a time. Most of them are people who fancy themselves to be nearly his friends; some just hope to be. Some are more ambitious.
He ordered oysters and shared them with a lovely model-turned-photographer, with a low sultry voice and heavily lined eyes. She wants to shoot him, and he knows that she isn't nearly high profile enough for that, not yet, not as a working artist, but she wants to transition and she's talking at an intense murmur about how she will show his inner truth and find the beauty behind his eyes, and if Bruce were the type of man to laugh loudly, he would be doing so.
Instead, he smiles, and for a reckless moment is tempted to take her up on her offer. He doesn't, and he knows he won't, and anyway, he's smiling a polite little smile at her and she's still talking.
"We could drape you in white," she's saying, "To show the altruistic, the purity, the openness, the honesty you have as Gotham's favorite son, and behind you to represent Gotham herself--"
He misses the next part of the pitch because someone does laugh, long and loud, cutting through the high class subdued chatter. For a second Bruce thinks it sounds like he feels, but he doesn't smile indulgently at the thought. Instead his head is up and scanning the dimly lighted plush interior of the restaurant, eyes sharp, something in him needing to find the source of the laughter, urgently, before he's even fully aware of the fact that he's looking.
Once his eyes find it, Bruce knows why he was looking.
The man is blond, and slender in his perfectly fitted, faintly pin striped suit. The colors are dark, save for the startling green of his tie. There is a faint pattern on his shirt. The face is a curiously a handsome one--
No; the face is a handsome one, no disclaimers needed, all clear skin (so very clear, and even, too even, Bruce thinks) and high cheekbones. The only reason it's curiously so is that Bruce draws the scars back on it, then the face paint, and his gut is crawling with what has to be disgust, but also a certain immediate and morbid curiosity.
He wouldn't have thought that the Joker could dress up and pretend to be a person.
Belatedly, he realizes that the part of him that's always Batman has memorized the color and cut of the Joker's tie and gloves (they are the only strange thing about the outfit, the gloves; the tie is tied in a tidy pratt knot) before the part of him that's Bruce notices the drop down dead gorgeous woman that the Joker is apparently wining and dining.
Those gloved hands touch the woman's delicate wrist for a moment, and the Joker leans in, smiling. His date (Date? The Joker has a DATE? Has he threatened her mother with a knife or kidnapped her boyfriend or rigged her dog with explosives to get her here?) smiles back at him, leaning forward as well, bowing her head before her gaze flicks back up, obviously flirtatious. Either she's never been fond of her mother/boyfriend/dog, or she is a brilliant actress in on some soon to be crime, or she is actually enjoying herself.
Better to think that there is a crime brewing here, something awful. Chaos has to be the only thing that brings the Joker out to play; he can't possibly be dating models for...for...for fun. The idea that the Joker might have an idea of fun that doesn't involves knives or gunpowder sickens Bruce, deep down in his gut, and if Bruce was just Bruce his skin would be breaking out into goose bumps at the sheer revulsion he feels.
But maybe the Joker is thinking about knives, maybe this woman needs to be saved, and Batman needs to...
Batman can't be here right now, and Bruce Wayne can't take a man down for having lunch, for fuck's sake. Bruce Wayne, in full view of all these people, can't take a man down at all.
It is then, as he is trying to figure out how to sneak away, get the suit, and come back in time to trail the Joker, that he realizes that the would be photographer is still talking.
"Hnm?" he says.
"Unless you think the Madonna symbolism is too much?" she says, apologetic and slightly uncertain.
"Hnm," he says again, to sound thoughtful.
"You're right, you're right," she says, pressing her generous lips together until they form a thin line, "You have excellent instincts. Maybe we can discuss the particulars later, hammer out a concept you like."
"Mmm," he says, to let her read it as neutral or encouraging, whichever she wants, "I'll give you my card." A sudden flash of inspiration. "Care to be walked back to your table?"
She smiles.
"I was just on my way out, actually," she says, and she's going through her purse, pulling out her own card, handing it to Bruce. He stands, links his arm with hers, guides her towards the door in a trajectory which takes him right by the Joker's table. His eyes flicker over the pair, nothing too obvious, but the Joker glances up and meets Bruce's gaze. There's a quick moment, a fraction of a second, and then he's apparently dismissed. The Joker turns back to the woman.
The prosthetics are good, very good. It's something pliant enough to bend with the expressions on the Joker's face, to make the smile look normal, but firm enough to fill up the scars.
Bruce takes a slightly different route on the way back, looking as vaguely amused as Bruce Wayne always does, a playboy smirk at his lips, and he doesn't raise his eyes to where the Joker can meet him, instead using the second trip to check the lines of the suit, to see if there any (poorly?) hidden weapons. Nothing catches his eye and he notes that the predatory slouch is gone. Nearly immediately he'd noticed the lack of the usual tics and twitches, but he hadn't expected this easy straight posture. He is sure, all the same, that this is the right man.
The small, protesting part of Bruce that doesn't want to make a scene, that just wants to sit down and finish his meal like a normal person, is trying to come up with alternate explanations. Just one of those faces? Estranged twin brother? Lab grown clone?
He cuts another slice of steak, and as he brings the fork to his mouth, he glances up.
The man that has to be the Joker is staring right at him.
That's fine. The Joker knows Bruce Wayne's face. Bruce Wayne has no reason to know this man. No reason to worry. Bruce lets his eyes travel elsewhere, like he didn't really notice anything. He eats.
When he looks up again, the Joker is laughing and touching the woman on the shoulder, but his head turns around quickly, like he feels Bruce looking. Bruce drops his eyes before he's caught.
He eats mechanically. He no longer tastes the steak.
The third time he looks up, the Joker licks his lips.
Bruce hears himself describe it like that in his head, but it isn't what the phrase usually implies: there's nothing sensual about it. There isn't anything that looks nervous about it, either, because there is never any uncertainty in the Joker's eyes when he does it. This time is no exception, and it's chilling to see the darkness of those unwavering eyes without the black paint around them; jarring to see how the tongue leaves the mouth to touch bare skin and not slut red and clown white. The tic is so essentially Joker that Bruce knows he's right, knows that he never really doubted.
The man is dangerous; the man is a menace; the man needs to not be here with all these normal, real people. This man is also Batman's greatest enemy; Bruce cannot risk becoming known to him.
But he sees the Joker exaggeratedly mime out a telephone, hand reaching out again to brush against the woman's neck. He drops his eyes but he can feel the Joker getting up, and his eyes drag themselves up in time to see the elaborate saunter towards his table. The lips purse, the eyebrows raise, and the head tilts, pointing. The Joker is humming and his hands are in his pockets, and he turns to walk towards where Bruce knows the male restrooms to be.
There's an easy confidence in that walk, like he knows Bruce will follow, or maybe he just doesn't care.
Bruce hesitates.
He crosses his legs. Uncrosses.
There's a steak knife tucked into his black dress sock now, and he gets up and goes to the bathroom.
When he steps through the door, he hears the humming, faint and unrecognizable. The Joker is tucking an errant strand of blond hair behind his ear in front of the mirror, though he turns when Bruce comes in.
"See something you like, sweets?" he drawls.
Bruce smiles, the affable, unsuspecting smile of Bruce Wayne.
"Just here to use the sink."
"Don't let me stop you," the Joker says, and the voice is not the one on the videos on the news, not the one Batman has heard say why would I want to kill you? The grating nasal tone is gone, and the weirdly incorrect inflections, the stresses on all the wrong syllables, is...there's a ghost of it that's been left behind, but that's all. It isn't enough to place the voice if you're not looking for it.
Bruce steps up to the sink and slowly washes his hands, eyes dropped so he isn't watching the Joker watching him.
There's the sound of foot steps and Bruce knows the next sound he will hear is that of the door being locked, but he does nothing to stop it. When he raises his eyes to the mirror, he sees the Joker standing behind him.
"The woman you're with," he says casually, sounding for all the world unconcerned, "How do you know her?"
"Oh, does Bruce Wayne likey likey?" the Joker asks, and Bruce watches, fascinated, as he grins. His teeth look decent. The strangeness of it makes Bruce feel almost dizzy, like the spinning world he's on is unreal; and that in and of itself seems wrong, that his concept of this man is so vividly detailed that decent teeth are unsettling. "I met her through--work, you might say. Lovely girl. Why do you ask?"
"She's very beautiful," Bruce says with a shrug, "I make it my business to be aware of beautiful women. That's all." He does not react to being called Bruce Wayne; he knows that Bruce Wayne is used to being recognized, and should never be surprised. Bruce Wayne is featured on tabloids.
Of course: so is Batman.
"Uh huh. So all the staring at little ole me that you were doing--that's, ah, what, some dominance thing? Some alpha...wolf...thing?"
If Bruce Wayne were only Bruce Wayne, he'd be uncomfortable enough to no longer have his back turned to this man. As it stands, however, Bruce just shrugs in the mirror and runs a hand through his dark hair, looking bored, preening.
"I wouldn't over think it," he said.
"Nnn," the Joker says, because one gloved finger is tapping against his slightly bared teeth. He looks thoughtful, like any predator looks thoughtful; thoughtful like a wolf sizing up a moose, wondering if that moose is worth the effort to chase. Except no wolf would take down a moose alone, but a clown will launch himself at a bat. But when is a Bat not a bat?
"Good talking to you," Bruce quips, and he's gliding across the floor and his hand reaches up to twist the lock back open--
There's a hand on his wrist. The grip is tight, and the leather of the glove is thin.
"If you wanted to stay and talk, all you had to do was ask," says Bruce, ever friendly, ever easy going. His tone is level. It is as if he does not know that the man so close to him is a psychopath. He can't know. He's not supposed to know.
"Splendid," the Joker says, not loosening his grip on Bruce's wrist at all, "Just splendid, Brucey. I'm glad. So glad." A pause. "You keep staring at my cheeks, Brucey-Brucey." The voice was low and dangerous for a moment, but a grin suddenly lights up his face (It is ghastly, Bruce thinks, how normal it looks). "Pumpkin wanna kiss?" He tilts his head, leaning in, offering his cheekbone.
"Much as I like blondes as a general rule, I'm afraid I'll have to decline," Bruce says, all mock sighs (can Bruce Wayne be seen taking down a man for flirting? Would it be bad press? Bruce Wayne has these concerns) and faux regret. "You're not quite my type. So if you'll excuse me--"
"No," the Joker says, response immediate and flat, with that curious lack of affect he sometimes has, the one that he compensates for by having too much emphasis the rest of the time, "I don't think so, Bruce."
Well, fuck--but then, he hadn't expected it to work anyway.
The finger tapping against his mouth has suddenly been replaced by a knife point tapping at his teeth, almost absently. Bruce can see twisted gears turning in that head: the Joker isn't quite uncertain, no, because that would imply a lack of self confidence--he'd have to care about being wrong. The Joker is, however, curious.
"Hey, hey," Bruce says, holding up a hand, "There's no need for that, pal." Play the fool. Offer what he'd expect: nothing he wants. "Is it, what is it, is it money? You can have everything I have on me."
"You didn't flinch," the Joker says mildly, ignoring him, "When you saw the knife."
Bruce says nothing and looks confused, and maybe he oversells it because the Joker laughs, yes, and, there, there, it's almost the sound he remembers, but not quite. When he finishes he's yanking Bruce sideways and then forcing him against the wall, keeping his hand pinned. Then, slowly, almost delicately, the knife is fitted against his mouth.
"Your eyes aren't afraid," the Joker swallows messily, and his shoulders, Bruce notes, are sliding back into that predatory slouch, that hyena lean, that posture of a rabid, hungry something ready to lunge for a throat. "I, uh, I'm something of an ex-pert on these things, you know. This isn't how I'd have expected this to work." Inexplicably, the knife relents, but then it traces a delicate line out of the side of his mouth, down to his jaw, then to his neck.
"Expect? I've never seen you before in my life," Bruce breathes. It would be so easy to bleed out right now. He stays very, very still. This is why Batman protects his neck. In a larger sense, this is why Batman is Batman: there are men in the world that use knives or guns to get what they want. Batman is not afraid.
Bruce, however, is...bordering on a little anxious, maybe. It's not enough to pass for normal, apparently.
Amusement flickers in the Joker's eyes.
"No, huh? You suuuuure?"
"I'd remember," Bruce says, earnestly. He widens his eyes some, as innocent and harmless as a golden scaled bubble eyed goldfish.
The Joker laughs again, hard enough to make his body roll like a wave, and so the knife digs in a little. The madman can't seem to catch his breath for a second, and he's gasping still when he grins.
"Oh, you're funny--much funnier than--well. Maybe too funny. Just as ridiculous, though. If you're, y'know. If. If not, it's not as funny."
"What?" Bruce asks, gasping a little himself, twisting away from the knife, slightly, trying to make his eyes look afraid, trying to keep his body slack, trying to not let muscle memory alone disarm the manic in front of him.
"Oh, such a straight man," the Joker mocks, tossing his hair back, "Just what every comedian needs. Not quite my style, a little more bumbling than I like, but it's still so good." His eyes gleam, and maybe he plays a word association game in his head. "What does Bruce Wayne do, hm, locked in bathroom stalls with strange men?"
"Get held up at knife point?" Bruce suggests. There's no excuse for it: there's a certain amount of self loathing in the comment, flippant thing it may be, smart ass as it sounds. Who is this Bruce guy, anyway, and why is he dumb enough to be here?
The Joker snickers. He hears not the words nor the tone, but something else entirely.
"Self disgust isn't really a turn on for me, traditionally," he informs Bruce, in an easy, conversational tone, "Except. Well. Maybe it's starting to be." The knife moves and turns, the sharpness of it wielded with a delicacy that makes only a faint line of blood spring up in its wake. Bruce swallows thickly.
The Joker watches, dark eyes indecipherable.
Batman would head butt him and break his nose and then take away his knife.
Bruce waits. Inside him, Batman waits, too. He doesn't move. The man pressed against him must get nothing from him; or, at least, Bruce can't give him anything.
The buttons of Bruce's fine shirt are rendered meaningless as the villian across from him slices and cuts the collar of his shirt open, exposing more throat. Bruce's neck is well formed but thick, a neck that might be strong from wrestling or weights or a work out routine that includes dressing up as a giant armored bat and gliding off buildings.
"The punchline," the Joker is saying, leaning in closer, hot breath on Bruce's face, "To this joke is either--" the knife nicks him harder, but it's at his collarbone, so it just hurts rather than endangering him, "Very awfully awful..." he giggles, "Or really...really...good."
"When do we find out?" Bruce whispers.
The Joker gives him a look, then rolls his eyes heavenwards.
"Hopefully never. Certainty is for the fishies, Brucey."
Bruce slugs him in the middle, fist angled up to get the impact behind the rib and into the liver. It's different without the gauntlets: he's much faster when he isn't weighed down. The twist of his hips is faster, too, without the armor to restrict his movement ever so slightly. The style should be different--nothing too fancy, when it's just Bruce--but he is allowed a certain amount of easy agility.
As expected, there's a moment and then the Joker slides down to the floor: body shot knockouts are highly underrated. Pain's easy to laugh off, but momentary organ failure is something a body takes seriously. Nonetheless, the few gasps of air the Joker manages are all being used up to make these eerie little huffs of laughter, even as he's sprawled on the floor. The knife is still in his hand, but barely; the grip of his fingers is weak.
Bruce leans over and plucks it out of his fingers. While he's at it he does a quick frisk; he ends up with three more knives. They're more discreet than the Joker's usual; folders and assisted openers instead of big fixed blades.
Weapons confiscated, Bruce retreats, eying the Joker warily. He's been waiting for the man to spring up and conjure another weapon out of thin air, but the Joker seems content to lie on the floor and wheeze with quiet laughter.
"And where did you learn how to do that, hmm?"
"Boxing gym," Bruce says coolly, because it's an acceptable rich boy place to go, thing to do, skill to know.
"Where they teach you to go for the liver?"
"I have workout tapes," Bruce says vaguely, "Are we done yet?"
(must be good tapes)
The Joker finally scrambles to his feet and Bruce circles, about to throw down the knives so he has his hands free for a takedown--
No, no. Bruce Wayne wouldn't throw down the knives. Bruce Wayne doesn't have the sacred respect of human life that Batman has, does he? Best to let the Joker think he doesn't, anyway.
He drops two knives only so he can open a third, and he holds it up, deliberately inexpertly.
"You must be a mind reader," the Joker drawls, before he gives a big dreamy sigh and bats his eyelashes, "This is just my kind of foreplay!"
"I'm not sure your date'll like that," Bruce quips, because it turns out he isn't as taciturn as Batman, "Maybe you should give her to me."
"Maybe I have other plans," the Joker hisses, and he rushes forward--yes, there, that's the right sort of disarm; it wouldn't work on Batman but maybe it should work on Bruce--
In the split second it takes to debate the point internally, the Joker knees him in the groin and takes back the knife roughly, shoving Bruce down. For good measure, he slams Bruce's head down into the floor. It's a classy establishment so even the bathrooms are nice--the slam hurts.
Maybe he's forgotten, a little, what getting kicked around without the suit is like. The suit doesn't make it easy--he admits he comes home covered in bruises and knicks; and for Batman, a bruise is something that probably takes up a solid forth of his body and a knick is something he'd (eventually!) bleed out of if left unattended. The suit does make it different, though, and Bruce hasn't fought like this in a very long time, bare knuckle, skin on skin because cloth doesn't register much at all, unless he's using someone's lapels to choke them out.
Head ringing, he shoves the Joker off him, muscles working partly on memory while his brain flicks back on. The Joker makes a surprised little noise that's still oh so smugly amused; the sound cuts into Bruce, clears his head. The Joker's back on him but he bucks his hips up high and twists, shrimping out, one hand down on the floor for balance as he swings on it, back up to his legs. They both drop into crouches now, circling. There isn't much room--there's an open area in front of the sinks, but eventually they're going to hit stalls. The Joker's still smiling, but his eyes are alert, and he doesn't quite have the unrestrained glee that flows through him when Batman's the one giving the punches.
Maybe, Bruce thinks, he just puts more effort into laughing when it's Batman, just to get under his cowl. Yes.
"Well, this is turning out to be a love-ly little lunch date," the Joker grins, "'My bathroom brawl with billionaire Bruce Wayne,' classy headline, doncha think?"
"Why are we fighting?" Bruce asks, exasperated. He should have known better than to follow him here. Instincts are sloshing together and making his nerves fire; it's tough to be Bruce Wayne right now. Anyone observing his position would agree, but for Bruce it's hard to be Bruce Wayne because he can be something else instead. The knife in this man's hand demands it.
"Because you can," the Joker supplies, and he's lunging for Bruce, knife out.
(Refuse. Don't answer the call. Take the bait and he wins.)
Bruce knocks his wrist aside at the last possible minute, and he can't stop himself from stepping just so and twisting the Joker's arm. It's a judo take down and the thinner man goes down hard, but now he's definitely laughing. Bruce thinks maybe they're done; they've reached the point where the Joker goes pliant and rag doll, too amused to continue the struggle, or convinced he's won some sort of ideological victory. The moment stretches out and Bruce moves to pin him down, but the Joker surges up once more and they roll on the floor, stopping only when they hit the wall.
The Joker, panting, has ended up on top, and his hands are busy pinning Bruce's hands over his head. It shouldn't be a stable position, but he knows how to use his limited weight, and that grip...
"It's all--" the Joker wriggles, and somehow Bruce knows that what he really wants to do is make a rolling gesture with his hand, but he can't afford to let Bruce go, "--signal detection theory, right? You might be a false alarm, Brucey-Brucey, but even a miss would be funny..."
The clown in civilian's clothing licks his lips, and unexpectedly quiets.
"...in a way," he finishes.
(he doesn't care if the joke is on him, as long as there's a joke)
Bruce tenses, ready to bridge his body up, turn the tables, start the struggle again--
But the Joker sinks in closer. It isn't that his body softens: it doesn't. It's that he rolls his hips into Bruce's, and keeps them chest to chest.
The moment stretches out like taffy, and Bruce thinks that's what his mind must be doing, too. The press of those hips against his isn't exaggerated and lascivious, which is what he would have guessed it would be like, if he'd been asked--not that anyone would--not that he's thought about it. It isn't cautious, either. It has this measured deliberateness, and that, as much as anything else, is confusing. The action is exactly what you'd expect it to be, not a parody of what it should be.
(Strange and stranger)
Bruce thinks his mind might be distorting itself out his ears, but his brain is working just fine. Exertion and closeness and friction and Bruce hasn't taken any of his superstar dates home in a long time, actually. His dick doesn't quite harden, but it lets Bruce know that it exists, which is betrayal enough. His body does not twitch, the lines of his face do not move: Bruce Wayne looks stern, like Bruce Wayne never should.
Something, maybe that, makes the Joker moan, slow and soft, in the back of his throat, and he cants his hips against Bruce's again, but his eyes look at his mouth carefully.
Bruce is in too much of a hurry to change the lines of his mouth to worry about how he does it, so his lips part. It isn't meant as an invitation, and he expects an invasion when lips brush his. Yet for whatever reason, the Joker keeps his tongue in his mouth, and he just nips at Bruce's bottom lip, and hums, something sing-songy. The lips press against his more fully, but it is curiously chaste.
A question forms in Bruce's mind, and Bruce is nothing if not a researcher, so he presses back, and it's his tongue that laps at the Joker's lips, softly stroking, slipping between--
Bruce gets a bite for his trouble. It's hard enough to bleed, but not as hard as he would have guessed. He figures the chance of being infected with something truly vile more than makes up for what it lacks in force.
"Ah-ah-ah," the Joker chides, "Naughty, naughty ducky, Bruce. Remember what I said? Certainty is for fishies. Are you a fishie?"
A sharp exhale on Bruce's part. To admit he wants to check for scars is to admit that he knows they're there is to admit--
"I just think it's rude to skip the kissing entirely," Bruce says, as if this isn't a completely bizarre situation, as if he's talking to an actual date that's going right, "Why aren't you a fan?"
"Most people it's rude to kiss with your eyes open," the Joker points out, and Bruce is guilty as charged, but who would let the Joker out of sight when he was so close to their face? "I think it's rude that you made me put down my knife."
"I think it's rude that you made me bleed," Bruce growls, but it's very carefully not a terribly deep growl, "Twice."
The Joker snickers, but his face comes closer again, and his lips are pressed to Bruce's and he sucks his tongue into his mouth, bobs up and down on it. He's practically fellating Bruce's tongue but still keeping it away from the inside of his own cheeks. His eyes are closed, and he seems entirely focused on tasting the blood, the kiss, the indescribable but tangible Bruce-yness of Bruce--and Bruce takes this as his cue to bridge up and roll them over.
Unfortunately, the Joker multitasks well and seems to understand momentum as well as he does and doesn't mind that their teeth clash, so they roll further, into the middle of the floor, and he shoves Bruce back down onto it hard enough to make his head bounce.
"Aren't you used to bleeding, Brucey?" the Joker asks languidly, like nothing has happened.
"No," Bruce says empathically.
(liar)
The Joker's snigger is lost as his mouth presses against the side of Bruce's neck, down to his shoulder--
Bruce knows what's coming and moves faster. Mouth sliding into position, he bites down on the spot where the neck ends. He bites higher up than the Joker does, but the Joker bites harder--but Bruce then squeezes his jaws tighter in response.
(Doesn't want to lose)
(no, no, no--he can't lose; there's a difference)
There's a tickling against the new throbbing on Bruce's neck, and it's spurts of muffled giggles interspaced with low groans.
"Oh, sweetheart, I was going to tell you it was rude to not make me bleed, but--"
Now.
Bruce moves fast and bucks; when the Joker's under him he slams them back down into position. The movement has shifted them across the floor, and the Joker's hand snakes out and grabs one of the discarded knives, too quick for Bruce to be sure of what's happening until cold metal is pressing into his neck again. The Joker wiggles under him, chortling, and it is in that shameful moment, when they're both breathing too fast, that Bruce notices that he's hard.
The infuriatingly happy hum is all Bruce hears under him for a moment, and then the Joker shrugs, smiles, and hooks one long leg behind Bruce's back. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, maybe, or perhaps it's just that this doesn't hurt his real goal, not at all.
Batman might be sexless but Bruce is not. Maybe it's the lack of a suit; maybe it is all in his head; maybe Bruce isn't too far removed to still--
"Have a thing for knives, maybe, Brucey?"
--get something out of violence in general.
Bruce growls and shoves the Joker into the floor again before forcefully claiming his mouth. So wrapped up is he in owning the kiss that he doesn't think to check for scars. That's not the point, and he knows that they are there, whatever game they might be playing. The Joker has steady hands and he is aware of Bruce's every movement; the knife recedes and returns, pressure held even, as easily if it were carried on a tide, and Bruce is the moon. Their hips rock together but the Joker never stops laughing, not really, it just turns up or down, like pressure in a hose. Bizarre as things are, Bruce thinks for a moment that the Joker doesn't want to hurt him, not really--
So of course that's when the knife digs in a bit more, and blood flows. It's not deadly, no, not nearly, but it's more than casual, and the Joker is hissing into Bruce's mouth. The knife gets tossed away and then strong and cruel fingers are digging into his hips, finding his belt, nimbly undoing it, attacking button and zipper--
Bruce spares a moment to knock the hands away, and then he's back to grinding into the man pressed against the floor. The grey space in his head between two names might be the only place he can consider this a victory, or even a fight at all, but there's a dark and desperate need pressing up against the back of his eyeballs. All those sleepless nights, all those lonely nights, all the skipped meals and cold bed sheets and romances that didn't--
So much of it is because of this man, but Bruce isn't allowed to display the hate Batman feels.
(Nor the mercy)
So he bites down again on the spot that's already sore and bleeding, and the Joker's breath stutters. Force the hate back down, put a cap on even the flirting specter of lethality as they are both doing, and they are left with something uncomplicated: frustration. Perhaps also curiosity.
The Joker's fingers are wandering again, free because Bruce is busy roughly dragging the pants down those sharp hips. A moment's spared for him to fit a finger in his mouth, and then his teeth get a hold of his glove and tug it off. The other follows. Hapless giggles and the Joker hooks his hand on the back of Bruce's neck, holding on for dear life (or something like it) as the laughter overtakes him and as Bruce slides--nonono, not slides, nothing so delicate--their cocks together.
(of course, he sets the pace; of course he does)
A gasp dies in his throat, and he tips his head back. Maybe he images the scent of rubber, leather, and kevlar, maybe he doesn't, but either way his newly bared fingers find the place where the blood ebbs (it hasn't slowed down, oh no) from Bruce's neck.
His fingers twist.
Bruce hisses, and pulls back just enough for a punch.
"Not the face," the Joker gasps, but of course he's still grinning and Bruce can't tell if he's serious; not that this is anything new.
"Quit that, or--" Bruce's mind blanks on threats, and not just because his skin is fizzing. It isn't like he's ever found one that works.
"Oh, stop, sweetness, reeeally," the Joker says, between panting, and there's a low whine from the back of his throat, "Don't bother." But his hands flutter at Bruce's shoulders instead, gripping there.
Bruce grunts in response, and the Joker shoots him a dubious look under his lashes before he arches back, pressing his hips home. They both let out shaky breaths, and then it's on in earnest.
They slide against each other, and the part of Bruce that's present wants to make this bloodier, while the part of him that's not quite absent feels dizzy. The Joker, for his part, has lost the self possession that Bruce noted when they were still at their tables: he is twitching and growling under Bruce, writhing erratic and lewd. They still mostly avoid each other's mouths, sucking and biting at their necks and shoulders. They switch positions a few more times, giving themselves all kinds of new bruises, courtsey of the floor, but they always end up with Bruce on top (barely).
Briefly, Bruce wonders if the point was the struggle and not the position, but for him, the position matters, or he thinks it does. At least, he does until they're both panting against each other's mouths and they're rocking together so close that it hurts.
The crescendo doesn't happen until the Joker clamps down on the wound at Bruce's neck and shoves his tongue into it, and then the laughter stops for a second as he swirls. Bruce gasps and sees stars, and even if he's turning his head to the side and wincing while the orgasm rides him in waves and slowly steals his senses for a second, he manages to shove the Joker off and down with a snarl, angry and true.
The Joker's head bounces off the tile, but that's not what does it, Bruce doesn't think. He kept his eyes on Bruce's face the whole time, at least until the snarl, and then his eyes close and his body stutters against Bruce's like a dying engine and he comes between them, hot and wet.
Bruce Wayne is used to holding on to someone gently for the aftershocks, so instinct doesn't make him move away immediately.
The only sound is their breathing slowing, at least until there's a tiny
"Heh."
Then Bruce rolls away from the sound.
They eye each other warily. The knives are flung every which way, off in corners, in stalls. No one goes for them. After a moment Bruce spares a second to glance down at his clothes, and he makes a face.
That gets a laugh, and then the Joker is dragging himself to his knees, scooting closer to the counter, where there is a basket of thick paper napkins. He takes a moment to fold one into a paper plane, tossing it at Bruce. It doesn't make it, so instead he throws some so that they flutter down around him.
They clean themselves up. Bruce notices the Joker stand, making faces at himself in the mirror, watching his cheeks carefully, but pretends he doesn't. In any case, he winces. There's a wad of paper towels at his neck, and it really would be better if the pressure kicked in and it stopped bleeding. Besides, there isn't a chance in hell a bleeding Bruce Wayne can make it through those doors bleeding and not be noticed. He looks at the Joker accusingly, still sitting slumped against the wall he retreated to.
A giggle.
"Watch!" The gloves are back on and the Joker rolls up the ends of his suit jacket. "Nothing up my sleeve..."
A scarf's pulled out of somewhere; Bruce is sharp eyed enough to catch it, but he didn't bother. He spares just enough effort to convey disdain.
The Joker giggles, and ignores him. He pulls Bruce to his feet and winds the scarf around his neck.
"There's more than one way to do a magic trick," he says, mock earnest.
"It's purple," Bruce says.
"So's your mother," the Joker says absently, patting down the ends of the scarf, making a thoughtful face and going through his pockets until he finds a safety pin. With exaggerated care, he pins Bruce's shirt more or less back in place. He runs his fingers through Bruce's hair. "That was fun."
Bruce makes a noncommittal noise, and the Joker is turning away, skittering after his knives. Not a one is pulled on Bruce; they are all tucked into various pockets.
"Your date's waiting," he mentions.
"So's your steak."
"What's her name?" Bruce persists. He needs to know who to look for; he needs to make sure she doesn't turn up missing
"Ah, the lovely miz Kyle. Yes." The Joker pats Bruce on the shoulder. "Don't worry; I'll think of you tonight."
Bruce wants to roll his eyes, but instead he said, tensely,
"No knives."
The Joker looks at him. He's quiet, but his eyes are laughing.
"I'm just saying," Bruce adds hastily, "Most girls don't go for that kind of thing." A beat. "Just a bit of advice."
"Right from the playboy's mouth," the Joker agrees. "Be seeing ya, Brucey-boy. I'd wait in here a bit if I were you. Wouldn't want to spread rumors, now would we?"
Bruce moves to block his path. The hook he throws is an easy thing; nothing exotic about it. It wouldn't be out of place in a run of the mill bar fight, and it glances off the Joker's cheekbone. His head snaps back, honey blond hair flying; his hand comes up quickly, and stays. The Joker cups his face in his hand, and lets his hair fall across it like a curtain.
He says nothing, but Bruce knows he's smiling. He unlocks the door and sweeps through it, still pressing his hand to his cheek.
Bruce stays in the bathroom for a long time, staring at himself in the mirror until he feels like he's gone into a trance. When he blinks back to himself, he decides to go home, sleep a little.
Batman is going to be busy tonight.