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The green in his hair washed out in the days of rain, and his dirty blonde hair is left dripping against his cheeks.
He’s panting – wheezing, almost – as he stares up at Bruce with unfocused eyes and a crooked smile. Well, he thinks that’s a smile, but it’s hard to tell beneath the jagged scars and running makeup.
He almost asks if it hurts, but he’s noticed the way he winces when he smiles, so he’s sure that it does.
Joker looks away suddenly, down to his hands (still speckled with paint), and then starts wiping at his face. It’s rough and fast and Bruce almost grabs his wrist to stop him, worried he’ll irritate the scars, but the paint comes off quick and he can’t find the power to.
He’s a little pretty, in this light, and younger than he’d expected. His eyes are blown wide, and he’s staring, and the black that still clings to his eyelids makes his eyes so much brighter.
The rain’s still hammering on his back. His hair falls in his eyes. He doesn’t move to remedy it.
So Bruce does. He reaches out, and pushes it back with his fingers, and finds himself holding the Joker’s unpainted face in his palm, tilted back a little with the force, lips parted in confusion.
(He looks like a lost puppy. It’s almost cute, but then he remembers who he’s dealing with.)
“Are you…” his voice is quieter, or maybe just drowned out by the rain. He clears his throat. “a-are you, gonnaaa, just…? …Or repay… repay the favour?”
Jolting back to reality, Bruce lets go of the clown’s hair – it falls smoothly down his temples and sticks to his cheeks – and reaches up to unclasp his cowl.
It falls to the ground with a thump. He doesn’t look to see where it landed.
Joker doesn’t react with more than a grunt, before crawling a little forwards – the blood on his scraped knees and paint on his hands runs through the water in the pavement’s cracks – and holding his jaw with his hands.
He strokes his smooth cheeks with his thumbs. Bruce sees his scarred cheek twitch and winces in empathy.
“No, no, don’t…” he gestures with one hand, struggling for the words, “don’t do that, Bats, don’t…”
“Okay,” the gravel in his tone is lost, and the Joker looks even more so, “okay. I won’t.”
The Joker smiles again now, wide and painful, and Bruce is extra careful not to wince. “You’re, y-you’re gonna… gonna be the best one.”
He doesn’t think to move out of his grasp – not even when he’s reaching for his pocket, or pulling out a knife, or digging it deep in his cheeks. He doesn’t flinch, like he promised.
When the clown finishes his work, he drops the knife abruptly and kisses the cuts clean, gently and roughly all at once, stinging and throbbing with pain.
His lips are smeared with red again when he leaves.