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Joker is not a detective.
It’s the fifth time they’ve done this (the fifth? Yes, once by the docks, twice in the Arkham district, once with that old lady shoving a broom through her 8th-story window to shoo them off her fire escape, and then this time). With his spine stretched around the width of the metal support beam still swinging from its Crane machine mooring, and the red moon over Gotham Bay as his witness, Joker hums and shuts his eyes. Yes, it’s the fifth night that’s ended with love bites trailed down his neck and chest, the fifth time Batman has brought him to orgasm at the end of their familiar rough-and-tumble.
The fifth time Batman has pulled away.
But Joker is not a detective and he refuses to draw conclusions from only these clues.
Puts on his best smile and runs a hand sensually down his body to re-fasten his trousers, gently so as not to disturb the goods, oversensitive as they are. “My, my,” he says quietly, “my lover has a spark tonight.”
The Batman says nothing, which is to be expected, wearing a frown like that. No clue where Batman learned to hide all his emotions, but if he ever finds out, Joker is liable to raze it to ashes, because it’s just so damn inconvenient! He shouldn’t have to pick apart the man’s every micro-expression in hopes of discovering meaning, like some kind of emotional archeologist dusting off fossilized happiness in the gaps between his teeth.
Still, Joker hoists himself upwards with a grip on the rigging, making the beam sway slightly under the shift in weight. “You okay, big guy?” Joker asks almost reluctantly, raising an eyebrow at the cape wrapped around the Batman’s shoulders.
Still nothing. The night is cool, but not cold, not crisp like winter, not like tunneling through snow on an Arkham escape with only a cotton onesie for insulation. No, this is something comfortable, like the touch of metal at room-temperature.
The temperature and the post-orgasmic satisfaction are the only things comfortable about this moment. “Come on,” Joker prods, “You’ve normally left by now.”
“It’s a long way down,” murmurs Batman finally, still facing away from Joker, barely audible.
Joker smiles, glances over the edge of the beam at the hundred-meter drop through the maze of scaffolding. “So you’re waiting to make sure I get home safe? What a gentleman, you are. My handsome gentleman.”
But it’s obvious that’s not what Batman meant, about the height, about the danger.
Damn, though. Joker’s not a detective! He doesn’t want to do this, this isn’t his responsibility, no, his responsibility is glee and mayhem and, evidently, sex and kisses in the moonlight not this.
Why’s he have to realize that, in all of their midnight rendezvous, Bats has never come? Why’s he have to think about not-good things the one time he has every right to feel good? It’s like he’s surrounded by puzzle pieces but he doesn’t want to bother fitting them together because he can tell already that the final picture is going to look bleak.
But here he goes. Never let it be said that the blue boys in tights are the only heroes around this joint.
Arms that could be used to choke wrap gently around Batman’s neck from behind, resting warm weight on his shoulders as Joker shifts closer. The beam swings and sways. Joker kisses down the seam separating cheek and cowl, listens to a whisper of wind whistling over the bay. Batman doesn’t seem to relax.
“Come on, darling,” Joker coos, whisper-quiet and soft against the skin of his cheek, “tell me what’s wr—”
The rigging snaps, and suddenly they’re falling. Falling fast, falling comfortable, because the Batman’s instincts are coming to life, pulling Joker’s body close and launching a de-cel line blindly.
It makes purchase. Joker presses up close against the front of Batman’s armor. At maybe fifty feet from the ground, their descent slows, and then Batman lets the line lower them gently to the ground floor.
When his feet touch the earth, Joker lets out a whistle and looks back up at the dangling piece of metal they’d once been fucking on. “I wouldn’t want to be the guy who rigged that up,” he points out, “he’s got a lawsuit waiting for him in the morning.”
But the Batman isn’t listening. He’s got restraint-panic in his eyes like something wild, the look of one of the inmates at the witching hour between one happy-pill dose and the next. And Batman says, to no one in particular, “I was going to let us fall.”
And Joker doesn’t even need to be a detective to solve this mystery. Joker, like any other self-respecting insane person, knows all the “warning signs” of “suicidal ideation” or whatever the folks at the looney bin call existential dread these days. Acting anxious or agitated, behaving recklessly, talking about wanting to die… it’s textbook.
The origin might remain a mystery to Joker, from the outside looking in, but that doesn’t change the situation itself.
“But you didn’t!” retorts Joker with a grin and a congratulatory pat on the Batman’s chest armor. “Good man.”
It doesn’t diminish the empty fear plain on Batman’s face, “But, I almost did.”
Joker’s not a detective. He doesn’t have to follow these clues; can’t he just ignore them? Will them away so he can just enjoy the Batman’s company? He just… doesn’t want to admit that all the sex they’ve been having these past few days is a symptom.
A symptom of something that needs to be fixed if he ever wants his Batman back to normal.
Which is… unfortunate. Because normal doesn’t usually involve nightly blowjobs.
Batman seems so lost in this territory, this existential space that Joker has always seen as a second home. The endearing naiveté… Joker can’t deny him, not now. He’s not a detective and he doesn’t have to follow the clues, but he is a human being, he really is, and he’s not going to let Batman just… suffer.
At least, he won’t let him suffer without a few good jokes along the way, and a massive live audience.
With a resigned sigh, Joker steps forward, and reaches out to cup his lover’s cheek, and bring the nervous and confused man back to reality. “…Dear,” he says sweetly, “It’s alright. We’re on the ground now.”
Batman is looking at him, without seeing.
Joker steps closer and takes his face in both hands, gently. “We didn’t fall. We’re right here; it’s okay.”
“I almost…” whispers Batman, hoarsely. “I wanted to…”
“Yes, it’s very scary to have wants like that,” Joker confirms, giving him a wink, “believe me, I know. Maybe you shouldn’t hang out on tall buildings for a while, hmm?” Batman doesn’t laugh (he never does), but he nods slowly in agreement, his eyes searching Joker’s for comfort. “Come here, let’s get you settled for a second, you seem a bit shaken.”
And oh, this is so bittersweet for Joker, having to give the man affection all while knowing, if it works, it will never be returned. But then, he loves the poor hero all caught up in darkness and fear. He loves Batman more than he wants to have him. And after five nights of mind-blowing sex, it’s really… no big sacrifice to show the big lug a bit of sympathy.
He removes the cape and wraps them both in it, together, curling up at the base of the scaffolding, a good ten feet away from where the loose beam would fall. He presses a kiss against the cowl, and breathes in the scent of his lover’s skin. And, reluctantly, he finally says, “Alright, love, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”