Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bruce was used to the nightmares. He was used to the the horror that played behind his eyelids every time they closed. Unable to save his friends, his children, his parents time and time again. He had long stopped jolting awake, panting and sweating as he blinked away gory images of everyone he'd ever loved. Never quite able to shake the pain completely, and doubtful that he’d want to even if he could, Bruce sought a kind of sick comfort in them, almost as if they were constant reminders of the choices he’d made, and he found them especially useful on nights when something had gone wrong and he questioned donning the cowl, questioned his usefulness. 

These new nightmares, if one could call them that, were a different beast. 

Bruce Wayne felt he did a decent job of keeping up appearances as the Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. Rarely did he turn up anywhere without one of the city’s lovely socialites on his arm. He prided himself on treating the women as politely as possible, smiling for photographs, knowing that every interaction with each would be tomorrow’s top gossip. Some of the women were bright, all were definitely beautiful, but Bruce never harbored any deeper interest in them. They were nothing more than participants in the performance piece that was Bruce Wayne. The Batman did not need anyone else to ruin. 

The older he got, the easier it was to keep the two separated. Bruce Wayne had a zeal for life, Batman had a role to play. 

Still, try as he may to school his heart, he had loved. 

Allowed women to tangle their fingers in his heartstrings and pull so tightly he gasped for breath. 

Tore away pieces of his soul only to watch them crumble to ash with each failure, each lost love pushing him further into himself, retreating into the darkness of the Bat. 

Yet, there was part of him, however small, that was always willing to try again. Regardless of how often he guarded his fragile heart, the boy that he never got to be, longing to be loved, won out each time. 

Which is why, when the dreams twisted to include the faces of those he had loved, he knew exactly why they appeared. They were as integral to him and what he had become as the Wayne blood that had stained the cobblestones all those years ago. 

This evening, however, Bruce awoke at sunset from a fitful sleep. He had managed to snag a few hours between meetings with his company’s executives and his nightly patrol of Gotham’s streets. This dream had been one forming at the edges of his mind each time he had slept for the past few weeks, finally come to uneasy fruition. 

Snatches of green, lit from within with a fire that burned his insides and left him feeling charred. 

Long, lithe limbs cutting through the atmosphere, unabashedly taking up so much space and yet hardly any at all. 

Full, red lips demanding attention to their every movement, provocative and insinuating a skill with much more than the words falling through them

Bruce’s panting was the only sound to be heard in the growing darkness of his room. 

What is going on with me? 

Bruce scrubbed at his eyes, trying to physically wipe the images of his nemesis, soft and pliant beneath his hands, a willing participant in the fantasy. He tried in vain to will away the flush painted across his body, hot to the touch. 

One erotic dream about the man you regularly chased across the rooftops and beat to a pulp was one thing, weeks of them were another thing entirely. 

Had he really grown so depraved? He knew the line between he and the Joker was blurred, hatred simply another form of passion and all that, but he couldn’t register any sort of change between them to turn him back into a teenager, waking up hot and bothered by hormones and his imagination. 

It wasn’t even so much that it was the Joker he saw. He’d long stopped thinking of the man as a monster, to do so gave him a power that Bruce wasn’t keen on giving. 

Not to mention that he’d acknowledged the clown’s insistence that they were one and the same, making Bruce question their similarities in a way that left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. 

It was simply the very idea that Bruce had pushed this part of himself aside since becoming the Batman. 

Bruce Wayne, the character, was virility personified, the picture incomplete without a trophy on his arm and a roguish gleam in his eye befitting of the billionaire who had never been told no. 

The Bat was nothing more than a symbol, the living idea of justice raining down upon the night. 

So what, then, was Bruce? What was he allowed to be? 

Bruce was shaken from his thoughts by a soft rapping at his door. Alfred entered, pulling open the thick curtains before turning back to Bruce, the bat signal shining in the clear night sky. “As much as I would love to see you get a few more hours’ respite, it seems as though the city needs you yet again.”

Bruce nodded, muscle memory dragging his body through the motions until he was in his suit and out on the streets. The commissioner had buzzed him, letting him know that the details and that he could have backup there as quickly as needed. 

Even without the instructions, the flames from the burning warehouse lit up the night, a beacon for his attention. Bruce ran a sweep through the ruins, checking for anyone alive, breathing a short-lived sigh of relief when he found no hostages. The warehouse appeared deserted. 

Bruce felt the wicked cackle before he heard it, it pulled him to the roof, where he knew just what he’d find. Still when he rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of the svelte figure, hip cocked to the side and outlined in pale moonlight and crimson flame, Bruce couldn’t stop his heart from rocketing into his throat. 

“Looking for someone, Batsy?”

Chapter Text

The Joker stood carefully perched on the ledge of the roof. His expression was that of a cat who’d caught the mouse’s tail between its claws, grin growing ever wider as Bruce squirmed internally under his gaze. 

Except nothing was internal when it came to this man. The Joker’s presence invaded Bruce’s mind, and he was convinced that the clown knew his way around inside his head. 

He made himself at home in there, giving him more than the slightest edge in their dance. 

Joker hopped off of the ledge with a spring in his step, always performing for his audience of one. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your lovely company?”

Bruce rolled his eyes under the mask. Of course the clown was going to try and goad him into some banter. “Let’s skip the games tonight, Joker. Why did you destroy an empty warehouse?”

The man strolled towards Bruce, and twisted his features into an comically exaggerated pout. 

“You’re no fun at all, you never wanna play with me Batsy.”

“Maybe if your idea of inviting me to play didn’t involve property damage, I’d consider it”

Joker giggled and pressed himself along Bruce’s side, throwing an arm over his eyes and swooning, “If only I’d known that sooner, I wouldn’t have had to waste my explosives,” he lifted a gloved hand to the side of his face in a mock-conspiratorial gesture, “those things are hard to get on the inside, you know.” 

Bruce rolled his eyes, they both knew that the man had enough influence to get whatever he wanted, no matter how high the security was at Arkham. 

“Well then you’d polish up on your negotiating skills. Your little stunt tonight is landing you right back in Arkham.” 

Bruce reached for the clown’s wrist, nearly making his way through the full range of the motion before the figure next to him ducked away. The knife that the Joker produced as if by magic from the folds of his coat glinted in the moonlight, and he thrust it forward, taking advantage of Bruce’s momentum to wedge it between the plates of the suit’s armor, deep in Bruce’s arm. The hilt caught along the plates, and as Joker’s other hand reached up to pry it out, Bruce kneed him in the stomach. 

The Joker gasped as he doubled over, a breathy laugh escaping his lips. Bruce grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and forced his head upwards, stopping when he saw the haze in his eyes, pupils blown wide in a stark contrast against the green. 

Bruce shoved him away, hard enough to make him stumble a bit as he straightened. Bruce turned and stepped back towards the exit of the roof, and Joker pounced on him, grabbing the top of Bruce’s cape for purchase. 

“Don’t leave now darling, things are just starting to get fun,” he purred into where Bruce’s ear was hidden by the cowl. 

Bruce turned abruptly, and slammed the man on his his back against the bricks surrounding the door. 

He whirled to face the Joker, who crumpled to the ground, running a white-gloved hand through his hair and staining it with blood. The Joker gazed up at Bruce through his lashes, eyes glazed either from the pain or…something else. 

Something Bruce didn’t want to think about. 

“I just wanted to see you, darling” 

His words trailed off as he lost consciousness from the blow to his head. Bruce leaned down and lifted the man, cradling him in his arms as he looked at the wound. Probably a mild concussion, no worse than any of their other tussles. 

Still…

Bruce felt like his legs moved of their own accord when he descended the stairs, heading for the Batmobile hidden in the alleyway next to the warehouse, flames dying down quietly in the night. 

Bruce laid the Joker in the passenger’s seat, as gently as he could manage while still folding the man’s impossibly long legs so that he could sit comfortably. 

Bruce’s stomach twisted. 

He’s lost at least twenty pounds since earlier this month. 

What would it hurt, began the little voice in his head, the one that the dreams had been making harder and harder to ignore, if I just kept him here until he came to? 

The Batman wanted to drive straight to Arkham, take the quickest route and drop the criminal back into the box where he belonged. 

Bruce wasn’t entirely sure that’s what he wanted at all. 

He spared one last glance at the figure next to him, a sliver of moonlight falling on one sharp cheek, and started the engine. 

He’d meant to do a perimeter sweep of Gotham anyway. He’d make the detour to Arkham eventually.