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Joker’s laugh is replaced with heaving breaths, like he’s been crying. Bruce barely meets his eyes – they’re watery, and a little glossy, and everything that’s unfamiliar. He almost wishes the old toxic-green orbs were back, instead of this dull shine.
“But you’re wrong,” he almost pants, and his hair’s stuck to his forehead in thick wet globs of green. “Because nobody can fucking fix me, Bats. They’ve tried, and they’ve failed. You’re no different.”
“But last I checked,” he found himself saying, the growl and modification of his voice long lost, nothing but soft Bruce in his tone, “I’d never tried. I’d only hurt you.”
The clown whimpers, slouching. He’s wrapping his arms around his chest – it’s dripping with blood that he can’t see the source of. His knuckles are somehow even whiter than the rest of him. He tries to keep the flinch from his face, but tears make his makeup run, and Bruce finds himself wiping it a little, smudging the paint beneath his thumb.
Joker says nothing, but leans into him, against his chest, still holding himself. He’s still crying, still panting, when he stops moving; and Bruce is still sat in his armour holding him when the sun rises.
The steady thud of Joker’s heart threatens to stop, but he rises to his feet and takes the clown home.
He’s assured that it’s suicide, but he doesn’t respond, looking up only to meet Joker’s gaze, a drowsy emerald green. The clown smiles at him, weakly, and he smiles back.
What a rare occurrence.