Archive of Our Own

John Constantine was on his last cigarette.

He was taking his time with it. Coat collar turned up against the wind, he smoked as slowly as he could, leaning out to stare over the Thames and the shadowy outlines of the city on the other side. As far as nightly cityscapes went, this one was a bit on the dim side; central London apparently went to sleep past 10pm these days.

The familiar indignation at the reminder flickered in John’s chest like an old friend. He embraced it, watching the glowy end of the cigarette eat its way up with slow, assured inevitability.

A metaphor, he thought, rather vaguely. He wasn’t sure what the metaphor was supposed to be for. Something about the passage of time, maybe, and how nothing good on this green Earth was made to last.

Or something.

Bloody hell, okay. So he might still be just a teensy bit drunk.

He tipped his head back, exposing his face to the cool rush from the river, and closed his eyes. “Fuck,” he murmured, and took another drag.

It only made him feel slightly better, in much the same way that kicking stones made anyone feel better. Mostly it reminded him that he now had that much less of a cigarette left to get him through the night. And that was because he’d been stupid enough to bet all his other cigarette packs, to say nothing of all his spare change, in a last-ditch attempt to win something tonight.

He’d thought he had such a good hand, too. That he could maybe try and not rely on synchronicity for once. Make it fair.

Thinking back on it, that had definitely been the booze talking.

And all right, theoretically he could make the trek to the nearest Tesco Express now, but even if he did, he had nothing to pay with, and going to all the trouble of getting home, finding money, and getting back out seemed like too much of a bother right here and now. And he wasn't much in the mood for whammying and robbing tired overworked shopkeeps.

Again, must be the booze. Making him all sentimental.

Ah, hell.

He leaned down on the railing, gazing to his right at the still, looming silhouette of the Westminster Bridge that might as well belong to a ghost town at this hour. In the distance, the round, glowy face of Big Ben obligingly told John that it was less than one minute to midnight.

All right. Just a few more minutes, John decided, and then he’ll walk around a bit more, sober up, and go home. He’ll try to get some shut-eye, sleep off the last of the vodka. And tomorrow, he’ll head down to the Local Sainsbury’s around the corner before he even gets his coffee.

For now though, he hung back, leaning on the railing, watching the smoke waft and swirl over the dark teeming mass of river below. Trying to enjoy the rare moment of relative quiet and serenity — if not quite peace — for what it was.

And it was nice enough, too. Right up until a blast of yellow light exploded behind him in a rush of noise, heat and wind, and pushed him forward, nearly tipping him over the railing to tumble down onto the hard paved docks below.

Nearly. He caught his balance just in time. But the shock of it made him drop the cigarette, and he watched it as it sank, its tiny flame dying in mid-air, only to be snatched away on a gust of wind and carried over the river.

Right. Right.

Whoever did that was going to pay.

He knew the explosion was magical before he even turned around — the air went all thick with it, brimming with the oily, electrical stench of ozone that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on ends. He started to turn —

And nearly tripped over someone lying there the ground, reaching to grab John's coat.

“I say, kind sir,” said the Joker, grinning up at him from the pavement. He tugged at the hem of John’s coat again, almost politely. “Might there perchance be a phone booth nearby? I do believe I need to call pest control. Or possibly the Ghostbusters.”

John’s eyes went wide, and then wider still as he stared at the great big portal that oozed and spewed ribbons of magic all over the place from behind the guy. The Joker, still lying flat on his stomach on the dirty pavement, was drenched in the stuff — it clung to him like louse to a whale, marking him as a great big bloody target for any manner of supernatural filth liable to tumble through after him.

The portal rippled.

John looked down at the Joker. “Your doing, was it?”

“It… may have been.”

“Right.” John sighed, running a hand through his hair. And this was supposed to be his night off, too.

“I reckon you'd best get behind me now, mate,” he decided. “Whatever’s on your tail is getting awfully close by the smell of things.”

Joker giggled, using John’s coat to haul himself up to his feet and wobbling more than a little as he did. John didn’t go to any great lengths to help him.

“Yes, all that brimstone is quite the giveaway,” Joker agreed once he steadied himself, rubbing his face on the sleeve of his purple trenchcoat. It came away crusty with blood and dirt, and Joker laughed even harder at that, touching his blood-slick hair.

“Long night,” he offered, grinning.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. The tension pulsing there was already turning into a headache. He didn't need this. It wasn't his fight. He should probably just turn around and walk the fuck away before he made things worse.

The portal rippled again, and all at once, the ground shook with the echo of hooves.

Heavy hooves.

Ah, fuck.

“Clown boy.”

“Yes?”

“I thought I told you to get behind me.”

“Oh, are you going to be my hero du jour?” The Joker’s eyes narrowed as he regarded John with new interest that John definitely didn’t appreciate. The guy hummed, putting his hands on his hips. “Your style leaves something to be desired in the way of tights and capes, honey.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I got tired of the wedgies.” John’s eyes flickered back to the portal, which was rippling furiously now, expelling fumes of magical dust with every ground-shaking stomp.

What in the name of fuck did the clown manage to piss off?

“You’re not afraid of me,” the Joker observed. He sounded curious more than anything else.

“Never was very scared of clowns,” John murmured without looking away from the portal. He could feel the pulses of heat on his face now, even from the distance. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“But you do recognize me.” In his peripheral vision, John could see the Joker get closer. “Interesting. You don’t look it, but you are one of them, aren’t you? Oh, what a lucky ducky I must be tonight.”

“Well, we’re about to find out, aren’t we? I said get ba—”

The portal ripped open, and nightmare fuel spewed onto the street.

That finally made the Joker move. Two skeletal hands grabbed John's shoulders, pressing hard, while John put his hand up, the warding sigil ready at his fingertips. It kept the demon teetering on the edge of the portal, one hoof outside and one in. The furious creature towered over them three times their human height, its entire body bulging with muscle in ludicrous proportions. Thick, coarse fur grew over its legs and forearms. Its claws stretched so long that John inwardly winced at the thought of what happened if it ever needed to scratch an itch. Mutilation, probably.

The demon stood there regarding them both with blazing red eyes, growling out of the corner of its toothy maw. Its posture was all dominance, head inclined slightly forward to show off the bloody big pair of horns that would no doubt run them both through like a pair of fleshy piñatas. The stench coming off it was almost bad enough to push out the usual eau de Thames.

Lovely.

“Oi,” John called out to it. “What’s this then? Can’t a bloke enjoy a smoke in peace?”

The demon stood tall, staring them both down. John could hardly see its eyes anymore from behind the twin hooked tusks sticking out of its maw.

“The pale one,” it boomed, in a voice like someone banging two pots together right into a microphone at a rock concert. “I want him.”

Behind John, there was movement, and he glanced around in time to catch Joker giving the demon a little wave.

He turned back to the demon. “Why?”

“He said the words,” the demon enunciated, each word filling the air with sulphur. “He spoke the invitation, and refused to complete the ritual or pay the price, so he's mine now.”

“And how’d you reckon that, mate?”

The fleeing grimace of annoyed confusion that crossed the demon’s face was almost entertaining. John shifted his weight from leg to leg and put his free hand in the pocket of his coat, relaxing just a tad. This was clearly one of the dimmer ones.

“I just told you, mortal,” the demon boomed. “He spoke the words, but he didn’t pay the price. He thought he could fool the great Mhax’ktu Kri with his tricks and tried to escape. I have chased him through many portals and realms before arriving in your domain. You will give me the pale man, John Constantine, and I will leave you and yours in peace.”

“Tempting,” John admitted, risking another look at the man at his back who was still trying to crush his shoulder with his skeletal fingers. “Real tempting.”

“If I may,” the Joker interrupted, then immediately started to cough. John couldn’t blame him. The fumes dear old Mhax’ktu Kri was giving off could easily power a small processing plant. “I would be completely on board for a good time with this here fine gentleman,” Joker tried again, “and I do apologize if he felt slighted. But you see, it wasn’t him I was planning to invite. There was a bit of a mix-up.”

“A mix-up,” John echoed flatly.

“Yes. As it were.”

“When you, what? Tried to summon a demon?”

“It’s not like I haven’t done that before,” the Joker pointed out, sounding slightly offended. “I had a run-in with the delightful Etrigan a while back, for example, and we had great fun together. I almost died.”

"That does sound like a great time to me,” John murmured. “So you tried to summon Etrigan?”

“Goodness, no. I’d never be so crass as to impose like this on someone so distinguished. I merely had my sights set on… a friend.”

“All right.” John tried to keep the rising exasperation out of his voice. “What friend?”

“See, that’s the thing.” The fingers gripping John’s shoulder did a little nervous jig, to match the giggle tearing out of Joker. “It’s funny really. It only dawned on me when I had this whole shindig underway that I… well…”

“He had no name,” the demon cut in, sounding obnoxiously smug.

At that point John was really, seriously considering taking Mhax’ktu Kri up on its offer and tossing the Joker right into its waiting claws. Hell, he’d happily grab a deck chair and watch the carnage. It wasn’t as though the Joker didn’t deserve it twice over — if not for being who he was then for sheer bloody stupidity. John would be doing the world a favor if he just let the demon escape with its quarry right now and thought no more of it.

Except then Batman would go spare and come after him, and John would never hear the end of it. Knowing him, the miserable bastard would probably make them both go on some epic quest into hell to get his pet clown back.

Not if he doesn’t find out, a little voice in John’s head whispered, but he dismissed it right away.

Batman always found out. Damn him.

Jesus, John wished he’d never left the pub.

“So let’s see if I got this straight,” he said, turning to glare at the Joker over his shoulder. “You tried to summon a demon... without knowing its name?”

“I thought I knew it,” the Joker pouted. “How was I to know that the Bat-Demon wouldn't be enough?”

“The Bat-Demon,” John repeated, and barely resisted the urge to punch the clown in his stupid pointy face.

Batman better buy him a fucking yacht after this.

“And you,” he turned to the demon, “decided you’d… what? Crash the party?”

“There was a rift to fill,” Mhax’ktu Kri announced, indignant at the challenge. “Any one of us could have stepped through. I got there first. The pale man is mine by right.”

“Actually, I have it on good authority that my soul is already forfeit,” the Joker volunteered helpfully. “It wouldn’t be any use to you, my fiery fiendish friend.”

The demon roared. Some of its spit sprayed on John’s coat. “It's not for you to decide what I can or cannot use, mortal!” it raged. “Let me through so I can take what is mine, or I will force my way in, John Constantine, and take you both!”

John nodded thoughtfully, still holding up the sigil. “I’m sure you’d try,” he muttered.

“It is my right! The rules are clear!”

“Easy there, mate, I never said otherwise. Me, I’d be happy to let you two go off and frolic through the red fiery pastures. It’s no skin off my back.”

There was movement behind him, and Joker’s hands fell away from his shoulders. The smirk made it back on John’s face, and he gave himself a heartbeat to enjoy the feeling of having both the demon and the legendary bloody Joker on pins and needles.

“But you see,” he picked up, looking up at the demon, “clown boy here owes me a cigarette. And I’m in a gambling mood, so how's about we play for it? One game. I win, the clown stays with me and you go off to find yourself another poor bugger to torment. You win, you get to have your merry way with him.”

Behind him, the Joker gave out a noise that sounded far too suspiciously like a squeal. “A game!” he cried. “And all for little old me? Now that’s what I call killer stakes.”

“Zip it, you,” John told him. He kept his eyes on the demon. “So? Whadya say?”

The demon’s growl got decidedly more rumbly. “I need not gamble on something that’s already mine. The rules —”

“ — state clearly that once a challenge's been issued, you need to step up. Isn’t that right?” John levelled his best casual gaze at him. “Or am I forgetting something?”

The demon held his eyes for exactly one minute and a half, then gave another enraged roar, stomping its one hoof on the pavement hard enough to crack it. The stench of its breath had John blinking. Drama queens, the whole sodding lot of them.

“If we are to play you need to let me through,” Mhax’ktu Kri pointed out.

“Right you are.” John glanced over his shoulder, where the Joker was now standing close to the railing as though ready to bolt over it. “You,” he called pleasantly. “Clown boy. Make yourself useful and hold this, why don't you?”

Joker’s eyes instantly narrowed in suspicion, which was absolutely fucking rich. But he did step closer, and took the sigil when John offered it up.

“My, isn’t this a fancy little trinket,” he whistled, examining it.

“Just hold it up like I did and don’t move,” John ordered. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to trust the Joker with something so valuable, but he needed both his hands for this next part.

He made quick work with the chalk from his pocket, outlining the containing circle on the pavement, then turned to the clown again, ignoring the contemplative look and the sharp little smile the bastard was now giving him.

“All right,” John said, stretching his back. “You wouldn’t happen to have a deck of cards on you, would you?”

“My dear sir,” the clown sighed theatrically, his smile now turning into a sharp-toothed grin. “Why do you think people call me the Joker?”

“Probably not for your Saturday night stand-up routines,” John murmured, and stood there for a while watching as Joker patted around his coat with his one free hand.

“A-ha!” he finally exclaimed, and retrieved a deck from an inner pocket of his lurid purple trench coat. “My lucky deck. Don’t singe it, mind, I’m very attached to this one.”

“It’s not going to explode in my face, is it?” John asked before touching the cards.

The Joker scrunched his face up in concentration, as though he actually needed to think about it. “I don’t believe this one will,” he said. “Then again, I wouldn’t trust my memory if I were you. I certainly don’t, and I’m me.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly selling it, mate.”

Behind them, Mhax’ktu Kri stomped on the ground again. “Quit stalling and face me, mortal!”

“All right, all right, keep your socks on.” John sighed.

He grabbed the cards, held his breath, and waited a beat.

The cards didn’t explode.

Well then.

“Cheers,” he told Joker, and then looked up at Mhax’ktu Kri. He swiped the sigil from Joker’s gloved hand and slipped it back into his pocket, never looking away from their guest.

“Right, then,” he said, stepping into the magic circle and sitting down on the cold hard pavement with his legs crossed. “Come on in, love, the water’s warm.”

Mhax’ktu Kri growled, but then it did shift its weight forward, bringing its other hoofed leg in from the portal. The moment it did, the portal vanished behind it as though it never was, leaving behind only the stench of ozone and sulphur and searing yellow afterimages that John took a moment to blink away.

He glanced over to make sure that the Joker had enough sense to keep outside the boundaries of the circle, which, perhaps astonishingly, he did. John nodded at him, trying to communicate that it should stay that way, and Joker nodded back. His green eyes glinted, and the smile spelled on his ridiculous red mouth now indicated that the wanker was enjoying himself.

Of course he was. Bloody Gothamites.

“Okay,” John said, turning his full attention back to the hapless demon now trapped in the circle with him. “Here’s how it’s going to go. One game, one draw, then we show our cards and — the hell?”

He made the mistake of glancing at the cards he was shuffling, and his eyebrows shot up.

The rank cards were plain and normal enough, even with their backs all purple and sporting a great big green fancy J in the middle. But each of the queen and jack face cards boasted a painted, cartoonish visage of the Joker himself in different outfits and poses, including drag.

The kings were all Batman.

John stared at the cards for a moment, then looked up at the Joker again. “Really?”

The Joker brought his hands together in a clap. “Fabulous, aren’t they? The supervillain game is all about branding.”

John took in the man’s outlandish purple, green and yellow outfit, his smeared makeup, his startling skin and hair; then he stared at the cards again.

Fabulous. In-fucking-deed.

“You test my patience, mortal,” the demon grumbled, sitting itself down across from John.

“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s patience is tested, everyone is having a terrible night, you’re not that special.” John shuffled the cards again, trying to ignore the ridiculous images flicking at him as he did.

And then, a thought: Maybe he all he needed to do here, for an optimal outcome, was just… not meddle. To rely on his regular shitty luck. Then if he lost, he could face Batman and honestly, truthfully say that he tried, then tell him to piss right the fuck off.

He sighed, dismissing that thought much like he had the first. The result would just be a rescue trip to hell all the same. Better save himself the trouble now.

He dealt.

And concentrated.

The next minute he was leaping out of the circle in a flurry of purple cards, dodging blasts of fire and killer manicure, while Mhax’ktu Kri trashed and raged inside the boundaries, roaring, “YOU CHEATED! YOU CHEATED! YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS, JOHN CONSTANTINE!!”

“If I had a quid for every time I heard that,” John muttered. “All right, let’s get this over with, shall we? Why don’t you just sit tight, nice and easy, and I’ll — ”

He startled when gunfire exploded behind him.

“Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“You burned my cards!” The Joker cried, shooting at the demon, his sharp pointy face contorted in blood-curling rage, his pupils shrunk into needle points as he emptied clip after clip into the magic circle. “That was my best deck! I had them custom made!”

“Will you bloody stop! You’re gonna get the police on our tail!”

But the Joker kept shooting, his bullets actually lodging into the enraged, roaring, fire-spitting demon. John closed his eyes for a moment, his left temple exploding with pulsing pain.

He did his best to ignore the chaos of hellfire and bullets splitting his head open, put his hand up, splayed his fingers, and said the words.

“NO!” Mhax’ktu Kri cried as soon as the chalk lines on the pavement glowed red. “NO, YOU CANNOT BANISH ME! I AM THE GREAT MHAX’KTU KRI, SON OH MHAX’KTU KRA! YOU WILL NOT DISPOSE OF ME SO EASILY, MORTALS! I WILL RETURN! I AM A DEMON OF THE 9TH GREAT CLAN! I AM FIRE! I AM DEATH! I AM —”

“ — thick enough to actually give up your name within the first two minutes of meeting me, Amateur Hour,” John told him, delighting in the sudden shock on the demon’s face. “Word of advice, mate? Maybe don't do that next time if you want to make it big on the demon scene. Send my regards to the family. Cheerio.”

“YOU CAN’T —”

John finished the incantation, and the demon disappeared in a puff of flaming mist.

John took a moment to press his stinging eyes closed again, and held his breath until the rush of blessedly cool air from the river cut through the burning stench of sulphur to scatter it into something breathable. Only then did he look at the circle, which was already sinking into the pavement, drops of demon blood steaming away into nothing.

Within seconds, all traces of that poor demonic bugger’s presence were gone, leaving behind only the ruin of smoking pieces of cardboard that used to be playing cards. Joker was now kneeling over them and trying to gather them into his hands, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like an improvised eulogy.

Right, well. The night wasn’t over yet.

“Hey,” John said, and then louder, “Hey! Clown boy. Come on. We gotta get out of here before the cops show up.”

“My cards —”

“I don’t care about your bloody cards. We gotta get a move on now before —”

John blinked, and suddenly stared down the business end of Joker's gun. Breath caught in his throat, John met Joker's eyes over the cold metal, and just like that, he found himself believing all the stories people told about the guy. There was nothing recognizably human anymore in the cold green eyes staring at him down the barrel, except maybe rage. And plenty of it.

Over a deck of bloody playing cards. Jesus.

“Hey, come on now,” John said, keeping his hands very deliberately in the pocket of his coat. “I don’t have time for this. You think I wouldn’t be able to disarm you in seconds if I wanted to?”

“I’m sure you’d try,” the Joker purred, imitating John’s own accent.

“I’ll help you get home if you play nice,” John offered.

“Oh, will you now? I really must have struck the hero jackpot tonight,” Joker whispered, and his voice rang with malice. “And why on earth would you do such a thing, hero?”

“Because Batman will kill me if I don’t, all right?”

“Ha!" That must have been the right thing to say. Joker's hand shook as he tried to stifle the giggles. He didn't lower the gun though, and demanded, "Why not just leave me here for the fuzz?”

Because I don’t want you slaughtering the poor tossers, John thought coldly, searching the Joker’s eyes. In this moment, he had no doubts that this would be the end result.

Out loud, he said, “Trust the police to handle you? Good one, mate.”

It paid off, as John knew it would. Something in the Joker’s eyes softened, and when he grinned, the sharpness of it took on an entirely new quality.

He was once again amused, and maybe a little intrigued, and John held his gaze without flinching, hoping to encourage this development. Anything to get the psychotic bastard to cooperate. Like it or not, John really could not afford to leave him out here.

Bloody hell, this is what Batman must feel like all the time, John thought, and instantly longed for a nice hot shower.

The day he found himself on the same wavelength as that sanctimonious prick was the day John would set the House of Mystery on fire.

“Come on,” he repeated, and held out his hand. “It’s been a long night and all I really want is to get home.”

What he actually wanted was a smoke, and another bottle of vodka. But he’d settle for sleep, if only the pointy wanker would just hurry up and move.

Joker opened his mouth to waste even more time —

Then sirens broke through the silence, and Joker leapt to his feet. “Invitation accepted,” he declared, then grabbed John by the sleeve of his coat and pulled him down a random street with strength that, considering his wimpy frame, took John completely by surprise.

“Hey,” he called, trying to tug out of the Joker’s grip. “Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Away!” The Joker’s grip never lessened as he took turns seemingly at random, disappearing ever further into the darkness of the silent, night-dead streets.

And John was shocked to see that he was having trouble keeping up. He was no slouch himself and had had his fair share of grand escapes, but all of a sudden the Joker seemed all leg, and John realized that the guy spent most of his adult life running — from Gotham PD, from Arkham security, and most of all from Batman.

A few turns more, and John was getting winded.

Right. Enough of that.

He grabbed onto the nearest street lamp they passed and pulled, hard. The sudden tug unsettled Joker, bringing him to fall flat on his ass. “Reckon that’s far enough,” John said, aiming for casual as he pretended he wasn’t trying to catch his breath.

Finally the grip on his wrist let loose, and he massaged it, wincing. Whatever they fed them back at Arkham certainly packed a punch. Especially given how this one barely had any meat on him to hold all those pointy bones together.

The Joker blinked up at him from the ground, looking genuinely startled, but he recovered quickly, John had to give him that. In a jiffy he was back on his feet and dusting himself off, and striking a pose, as though the pratfall had been his own idea all along.

“Eight and a half out of ten, ladies and germs!” he exclaimed, bowing.

“Very nice,” John murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You ready to listen to me now?”

“Oh absolutely, gov’nor, fearless leader, lord of stubble. Where to now?”

“Gimme a sec.” John looked around, and realized that in his mad dash away from the police the Joker managed to drag them into one of the side-alleys leading out to Covent Garden.

He looked at the Joker and considered his options, which didn’t exactly overwhelm. He couldn’t very well go for the most obvious solution, which was to bring the bugger over to the House of Mystery and just zip them over to Gotham — the last thing he needed was the Joker rummaging around a supernatural hub chock-full of magical artifacts. Judging by the stunt he pulled tonight, he might just be able to activate some of them completely by accident. Besides, John was pretty sure that given the residue of demonic energy still stuck to the Joker like flakes of bloody glitter, to say nothing of who the guy was, the House would simply close its gates on them and refuse to let either of them in.

But it wasn’t like he could afford to get Joker a plane ticket to Gotham, either.

John sighed, and spared a moment to yearn for his lost cigarette.

Thankfully, there was one simple solution readily available.

He reached for his phone and held it up.

“Say cheese.”

The Joker’s face lit up like a bloody Christmas tree, and then he was a flurry of purple and green, striking a pose: one hand on his hip, the other up to blow a kiss for the camera as he winked. He didn’t seem to care that his lip was split and that he had dried blood, dirt and soot all over him. None of those things got in the way of his strange - and, if John was honest, kind of disarming - charisma.

“Lovely,” John said. He took the picture, selected the number he’d only used once or twice in his life, and sent it.

Hey, Bats. Got something of yours here. Wanna fly over and pick it up?

His phone vibrated not five seconds later, and he smirked at the reply.

On my way.

Yeah, John thought so. He pocketed the phone and looked at the Joker, feeling slightly better about the world in general now that he got to inconvenience Batman. It’s the little pleasures that made all the difference.

“Your boyfriend’s coming to pick you up,” he told Joker, who only grinned harder at that. “We just need to find a quiet spot to wait for him. I reckon not even the Batwing can make it across the Atlantic in an hour.”

“Three, I’d wager,” Joker guessed, and John nodded. He looked around.

“Look, why don’t we get a move on,” he suggested. “It’s cold, and we’ll be harder to track if we don’t stay in one place. How about a stroll?”

“A stroll through the streets of London under the moonlight,” the Joker hummed, as though the words reminded him of a song. His eyes sparkled as he looped his arm through John’s. “How romantic.”

“We’re just killing time,” John sighed. “You can’t even see the moon through all the clouds. Don’t get any ideas, yeah?”

“Perish the thought.”

But Joker was smiling strangely as he said that, and he was still regarding John with narrow, half-lidded eyes. He was also pressing awfully close all of a sudden.

John spared half a second to wonder if he was bothered enough to do anything about it, then decided he wasn't. If the clown wanted to be weird, then let him be weird. From what John heard about the guy, a little flirtation was actually preferable to the alternatives, and John could play along while the going was good.

He tugged a little, and started to walk in no particular direction other than ahead with the Joker still on his arm. He tried to keep to the shadows, ducking the CCTV cameras. The cops were probably still sniffing around. Lying low wouldn’t hurt, especially with the both of them looking the way they did.

Except then the Joker started bloody singing.

“Oh this is the night,” he crooned, clinging to John’s arm. “It’s a beautiful night, and they call it bella notte…”

“Oh come on,” John hissed. “Do you want to get caught? Because if you do, just say the word and I’ll be happy to —”

“I’m deflecting!” the Joker whispered, winking at John. “They’re hardly gonna bother with a pair of drunks out on a walk of shame, are they?”

“Not if they’re just gonna bag us for disturbing the peace instead,” John grumbled, but he had to allow the idea had merit. “Here, just… lemme…”

He pulled Joker closer and hoisted one purple-clad arm around his neck, then wound his own arm around Joker’s waspish waist. Up close, he could still smell magic residue on the guy, but it was dispersing now that the demon’s right to him had been challenged and nullified. It should all be gone by morning.

“You can go on pretending to be drunk,” John told him, “but no singing, got it?”

“I would just like to point out,” the Joker slurred theatrically, happy to let John support most of his weight, “that out of the two of us, you make a far more convincing hobo than I. That five o’clock shadow really sells it. And you actually smell like a distillery, Johnny boy. It was Johnny, wasn’t it?”

“Let’s maybe not go into who smells like what,” John suggested, which he thought was rather diplomatic of him. “You were the one who decided that a little gunfire was just what London needed in the dead of night, so you get to be the drunk one.”

A grimace of fury slashed across Joker’s face, presumably at the reminder of his ruined cards. “Why, I ought to summon that fiery nincompoop again just to empty another clip into him,” he growled. “Those cards cost an arm and a leg!”

“Not yours, I'd wager,” John murmured.

That stopped Joker short, and John wobbled a little, trying to keep his balance.

Then the Joker laughed.

“Jesus, mate, what did I say about keeping it down?” John tried, but to the guy's credit the Joker was actually making an effort, trying to curb the initial ear-splitting burst of hysteria by stuffing a gloved fist into his too-wide mouth and biting down on his knuckles. When he looked up at John, the sparks in his eyes positively danced, and John nearly got whiplash from how fast the guy could jump from one extreme mood to the next.

“I like you, Johnny boy,” the Joker decided when he calmed down a bit. John gave him a tug to stumble on ahead, steering away from the reddish glow of Chinatown and the flicker of Shaftesbury further up. “You’re funny.”

“Thought you were supposed to be the funny one,” John murmured. It didn’t escape him that Joker never commented on the arm and leg thing.

“I’m an acquired taste,” the Joker confessed in what, for him, was probably a rare moment of humility. “It’s why I hardly ever take my act on the road, you see. Dear old bruised and battered Gotham is the only scene that really gets me.”

John nodded vaguely, and made the executive decision not to comment on who it was that usually did the bruising and the battering. Joker may have for the moment decided that he liked him, but he seemed capable of changing his mind at the drop of a hat. John would rather not push his luck.

Getting him to talk seemed to keep him from making a ruckus, though, so John decided to indulge some of his curiosity. “Until you decided to play with the occult,” he prompted. “What I’d like to know is, how did you even get the summoning to work at all? You’re not meta or magical... are you?” Now there's a scary thought.

“Oh? Did I tread on your toes, there, bud? Wounded your professional pride? Pricked a little curiosity?” The Joker smirked easily, without missing a beat, as though the conversation they were having now was perfectly ordinary. Which, for John, it was — he just wasn’t used to normies talking about magic like it was the weather.

"Yeah, a bit," John admitted. "I'm something of a field expert."

"So I've noticed." Joker's smile looked sharp and crooked, sketched in shadow and passing streetlamp light. "Our demonic gentleman knew you by name. Bit of a celebrity, are you?"

"In the right circles, yeah, I guess so. I've stood on some important toes, that's for bloody sure."

“A man after my own heart. Well, my new magical friend,” Joker picked up, with a fresh smug lilt to his voice, “it’s like I told dear old Lexie when he dropped by to discuss ponies and magic balls: I’m an archetype, by fate and choice. And archetypes like me attract all manner of interesting things if you keep an open mind. And mine’s so open it's practically leaking!”

He laughed again, but he had the decency to keep it down this time, which was a good thing since they were now slowly ambling towards Trafalgar Square. Even at this hour, there were bound to be people loitering around there, all revved up with no place to go - much like John himself would have been, had his night not taken this bizarre turn.

John glanced over at Joker and resisted the temptation to prod him to explain about Lex Luthor — presumably — and magic balls. He had a feeling he didn’t want to know. The other thing, though…

“Sounds a bit bollocks if you ask me,” he prodded.

“Does it? I don’t think so. Then again, I wasn’t thinking about all that when I decided to play around with the dark side. I just thought it’d be fun to try it, and boom, it worked.”

John glanced at the guy again, and concentrated, trying to probe around for traces of magical talent. The summoning really shouldn’t work for someone who had no inherent magical ability, especially not a total novice, but this one claimed he had been able to summon Etrigan.

John would really love to hear that story someday.

He didn’t find anything obvious, but the more he concentrated, the more he felt… something, around the Joker. Not anything as straightforward as talent, not even simple potential, but… something, a bit dark, a bit heavy, clinging to him beyond leftover demon dust. Sensitivity, for sure. Raw and untrained and only half-developed. But something else, besides. Something John had never encountered before, or...

No, that wasn't right. He had, hadn't he. A similar feel hung around the old storybook crowd. It's just the flavor of it that was different, and the shade.

Archetype, eh?

Maybe it was time for John to hit the books again.

Then again, Gotham, and Arkham especially, were popular supernatural hotspots. John had never had any reason to investigate any of it closer personally, but there was definitely something in the water there, and maybe if you hung around a place as haunted as Arkham long enough, something just… rubbed off.

It would explain a lot, in any case.

“So what were you trying to summon this time around?” he asked, looking back to the Joker.

“I told you. The Bat-Demon.”

Right. Yeah, there had been that. “Care to elaborate?”

“You haven’t heard of the Bat-Demon?” the Joker asked, in a tone that implied What sort of expert on the occult are you?

“Let’s just say Gotham isn’t exactly my turf.”

“Good grief, what do they teach you younglings at Hogwarts these days? Why, the Bat-Demon… he’s everything! He’s Batman, he’s Gotham, he’s Arkham all in one!” The Joker’s expressive arched eyebrows were drawn tight together now, not in fury but in concentration. “He’s the spirit of the city itself!” he insisted. “He’s everywhere! He’s… he’s my special friend.”

All at once Joker’s expression turned downright beatific, and John was instantly suspicious. Wherever this was going, he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be good.

“He comes to me sometimes, at Arkham, when I’m down in the dumps,” the Joker told him, voice going soft now, his gaze distant as it fixed somewhere ahead of them. “He comforts me. He makes sure I don’t stray from my purpose. He loves me.”

Oh, great. Now the clown was looking like a lovesick schoolgirl daydreaming about her crush, and yeah, John had been right. He really didn’t like where this was going.

“So you thought you’d… what, invite him out on a date?” he prompted before Joker could launch into any details about how exactly the Bat-Demon ‘loved’ him. Judging by his face, John had a pretty good idea.

“That’s exactly what I was trying to do!” Joker lit up, grinning at John. “I had the flowers and the candles all ready, I had the champagne cooling, the whole nine yards. Batsy wouldn’t let himself go along with it, but the Bat-demon is Batsy, so I thought, since he’s been so kind to me, I’d return the favor. Well.” Joker gave a one-arm shrug, smile turning impish. “That, and I was bored.”

“And it hasn’t occurred to you that the Bat-Demon might not be the chap’s real name?” John asked, and resolutely did not point out that the chap in question might not be all that real to begin with. He was dealing with an Arkhamite here. He’d only properly met the Joker tonight, but he already suspected that arguing the merits of reality, already far too shaky at the best of times — which John knew better than most — would achieve exactly fuck-all.

There was that one-arm shrug again as Joker shifted even more of his weight against John. “I suppose the name rule slipped my mind. Details like this usually do when I get in the mood, you know?”

“Three guesses as to what sort of mood that was,” John ventured, risking a smirk, and felt oddly gratified when the Joker returned it.

“Indeed,” he said easily. “What can I say? A girl gets thirsty for some quality time with her man every now and again that doesn’t involve punching.”

“Now there’s a bit of villain celebrity gossip one doesn’t hear every day.”

“You’re surprised?” Joker pivoted right back to amusement, one curved eyebrow arching up at John.

“A bit.” Now it was John’s turn to shrug. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to be quite so…”

“Gay?”

That, to John’s own surprise, startled a chuckle out of him. “Yeah, that,” he admitted. “You're larger than life, mate. Even by supervillain standards. I guess I thought maybe the whole... flamboyant thing was just part of the act.”

“Excuse you, have you seen me?” the Joker teased, flicking his hair, and John let out another chuckle in defeat. "Nothing about this is an act. I'm organically fabulous... Only needed a splash of Gotham chemistry to bring it out of me."

“Fair enough, mate,” John allowed, jostling them a bit so he could readjust his grip around the Joker’s waist. “Fair enough.”

The Joker seemed pleased enough at that, and poked one long finger at John’s chest. “Now, you didn’t seem all that surprised when that portal threw me up at your dashing if slightly bedraggled feet,” he commented.

“Oi,” John protested. “Who you calling bedraggled?”

The Joker shot a pointed look at John’s boots, which had definitely seen better days, and John conceded the point by sighing. “All right, I didn’t have time to clean up,” he murmured. “You’re the one who ran through hell and back and looks it.”

“I’ll have you know it’s called Battle Chic, and I’m rocking it,” the Joker informed him, tilting his chin up all haughty. His eyes slipped over John, and his smile turned up a new edge. “I didn’t mean bedraggled as an insult, honey. You actually manage to make the 'world-weary cynical drunk' look work. That's impressive! Many men try, few succeed.”

“Um.” John tried to parse through the fact that the Joker had just complimented him on his fashion choices, or lack thereof. “Ta, I guess.”

“You’re most welcome. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

John breathed out, appreciating the attempt to steer him back to familiar ground. He gazed on at the streets ahead, ignoring the looks they drew from the occasional nightly passers-by.

“You learn to expect that kind of thing in my line of work,” he said. “Random portals to hell popping up everywhere? To me that's just a Tuesday.”

“What a fascinating life you must lead.”

“Yeah.” John let his mouth curve into a smirk that tasted bitter. “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

He let his free hand slip into the pocket of his coat and curled it there uselessly. The stint with the demon was enough to sober him up, but damn, he really wanted that cigarette.

“So, in your professional opinion, do you think my new friend will be coming back?” Joker mused.

“Nah. I challenged him over you and won. That means his claim is void. Long as you don’t play at summoning any more demons, you’ll be fine.”

“My hero,” Joker gushed, and pressed in closer still.

John looked away, swallowing. “Yeah, well, count yourself lucky that the demon who responded was a pillock,” he said. “Most of them know better than to announce their name first chance they get. Then it wouldn’t have been so easy to get rid of it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d have managed. You seem like a man who knows his way around a magic circle. Which only goes to show.” The Joker rested his head on John’s shoulder. “I really have been a lucky ducky so far, to make my way to you. And the night’s still young, which begs the question… what other adventures might still be in store for us?”

John snorted, and risked a glance over at Joker, who was now grinning at him in a manner that left precious little doubt as to what he meant. The moment John’s attention was on him he actually went and waggled his eyebrows, and John shook his head, amused despite his better judgment.

“Careful there, or I might decide to exorcize you, too,” he warned.

“Well then,” Joker purred, angling to put his hand on John’s chest. “Why don’t you sprinkle some salt on me?”

“Jesus, that was terrible.” John jostled him a little, smirking. “Where did you learn to flirt, the Clown Academy?”

“Elizabeth and Amadeus Arkham’s Revolving Door Institute, actually.”

That tore another snort out of John, and it was probably a good thing that the street they chose spilled out onto Trafalgar Square when it did; he was actually in danger of enjoying himself. He knew he had to be careful. He’d spent enough time around villains to know they could be perfectly charming, right up until they stuck a knife in your back and laughed in your face. He had no doubts that the specimen he was currently lugging along would shoot his head off without a moment’s hesitation, if the whim struck him.

But, far as John could tell, Joker seemed to be enjoying himself, too. If a little banter got him going and kept the city safe from his more sinister attentions, John was ready to take one for the team.

Be the change you want to see in the world, and all that.

“Come on,” he said, nudging Joker towards the middle of the square. “My feet are killing me.”

“A superb idea, gov’nor,” the Joker lauded, and then hummed, “In the jungle, the London jungle, the lions sleep tonight…”

John let him at it, ignoring the few amused glances they attracted from the junkies, drunk teenagers and rough sleepers who usually took possession of the square in the small hours. As he predicted, there weren’t all that many people here who bothered to pay them any attention; in the darkness, they were just another couple of men in trench coats, and even the Joker’s ridiculous colors didn’t stand out so much if they stayed away from the street lamps. With that in mind, John led a beeline for the nearest fountain and sat them both down on the cold stone ledge, stretching his legs out.

Man, that felt good.

Soon as they sat down, the Joker started to rummage around the pockets of his coat again. John watched with slightly horrified interest as the guy took out, then discarded: one rubber chicken, a whole set of knives, one whoopie cushion, a pair of Groucho glasses, one joy buzzer, one watergun, and what looked like a fake plastic throwing pie.

“All right there, mate?” he asked idly.

“One moment please,” the Joker said distractedly. “I know I had them on me somewhere…”

Then, finally, let let out a satisfied yelp. He stuffed everything back into the expanses of his coat, and retrieved…

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” John sighed, staring at the packet of Pall Malls.

“You did say I owed you a smoke,” Joker pointed out. He waved the packet in John’s face. “Go on, help yourself. It’s the least I can do.”

“No way am I taking a fag from you. I wasn’t born yesterday, mate.”

“Suit yourself.” Joker shrugged, then took one cigarette from the packet and put it in his own mouth. His lighter, when he retrieved it, was bright purple and had the same stylized green J on it that the cards had. Because of fucking course it did.

John watched, suddenly tense all over, as Joker brought the flame to the tip to ignite it.

“Mmm,” the clown sighed, closing his eyes as he took a deep drag. “I don’t actually do this very often, but I must say, in the right circumstances? It can be quite satisfying.”

“Fuck’s sake.” John ran a hand through his hair, gave himself another second to listen to reason, and promptly capitulated. “Give that here, then, you clowny bastard.”

“Allow me,” Joker insisted, and watched John with that weird little smile as he lit the cigarette for him.

John took a drag, and flatly refused to feel bad about it. He’d had a rough night. He deserved this.

He looked out over the square, and didn’t flinch when he felt Joker’s body slide up close against his own again.

“Getting awfully familiar there, old boy,” he commented softly.

“Does that bother you?”

Right here and now? No, it didn’t bother him, though he knew it should. He was tired, and the press of Joker’s body warded off the worst of the chill. John wasn’t exactly above taking advantage of that.

There was very little he was above, these days.

He didn’t say anything, and Joker - rightly - took that as his cue to scoot closer still. He held onto John’s arm and lay his head on John’s shoulder, easily, as though there was absolutely nothing weird about him doing that. It made John wonder if he got like that with other heroes too, and Bats especially, or if John had managed to win some special cuddling privileges.

Up ahead, in the distance, Big Ben chimed. One am, and all is well.

Ha.

“I'd kill for a bottle of wine right now,” Joker murmured, in a soft, breathy voice, and John hummed amused agreement.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any in that Tardis coat of yours, would you?”

“Alas, I left the wine in my other Tardis coat.”

“Shame.”

John let himself lean back a little, resting on the hard cold stone, and considered. They had another couple of hours before Bats got here, at the very least.

He fought with himself for about three minutes, and then gave in. Apparently this was a night for bad decisions all around, and hey, what else was new?

“Joker.”

“Hm?”

“Did you actually manage to grab any of the cards back there?”

The weight against him shifted and let up a bit as Joker looked at him. He blew smoke into John’s face, and John retaliated with the same.

“Why?” Joker asked, his vaguely flirtatious humor gone.

“Lemme see them.”

“If you feel like admiring the artwork, buddy, you’re a little late.”

“Just let me see whichever card you got that’s the least singed, yeah?”

Joker regarded him with deepening suspicion. But then, he did slip his hand back into one of the many inner coat pockets and held up the sad, charred ruins of cardboard. Reluctantly, he offered them to John.

John leafed through them, frowning. He selected the least coaly one he could find — one of the Batman-kings, cheers — and concentrated on his memory of what the rest looked like. He summoned the memory to the forefront, and sought around for the deck’s signature buried under demon fire.

He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and then whispered, “Cover me, luv.”

He closed his eyes.

“Kced siht erotser.”

The cards in his hand glowed — he could see the sudden light through his closed eyelids — and the new weight on his hand told him he was at least partially successful. He opened his eyes to see a brand new deck, and carefully shuffled through it.

He offered it to Joker. “May not be a perfect copy,” he said, “but it’s the best I could do.”

The Joker’s eyes were saucer-round as he stared at the deck in John’s hand, then at John. He reached out for the cards with almost religious reverence, and looked through them, shuffling faster and faster as his face gradually transformed into something like breathless wonder.

Then, all of a sudden, John had his arms full of enthusiastic skeletal clown, and there were lips pressing into his stubbled cheek.

“Thank you,” Joker gushed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh, this is perfect!”

“Hey, wait, settle down now.” John tried to pry Joker off him, but Joker only relented after planting yet another kiss on John’s other cheek. “Easy. I just wanted something to pass the time, all right? No need to get all excited.”

“I beg to differ,” Joker protested, sitting back now and positively glowing as he hugged the cards to his chest. “I told you, this deck is very dear to me.”

“Yeah, well.” John shifted on the stone, rubbing at his cheek. There were probably lipstick stains there now, Jesus Christ. “Fancy a game?”

“Whatever should we play for?” Joker mused, expertly shuffling the cards from one hand to the next like a street magician.

John smirked. Bloody show-off.

“Those Pall Malls,” he suggested.

“And if I win?”

“Go on, then, love.” John sighed. “Name your price.”

That was a mistake. John knew it as soon as he caught the light come on in Joker’s eyes.

“A kiss,” Joker said immediately.

Oh bloody hell. “You just gave me a kiss,” John pointed out. “Two of them, in fact.”

“I mean a proper kiss,” Joker corrected. “On the mouth. I believe around here you call it a snog.”

“That what you want? A snog? Really?”

“Yes, really.” Joker’s eyes went half-lidded, and the bastard had the gall to lick his lower lip as his smile opened up to show a hint of teeth. “You’re a bit on the skinny side compared to the guys I usually go for, but… Maybe it’s your rugged charm. Or your cynicism. Whatever it is, it’s hot. And tonight was supposed to be date night.”

John regarded him back, and waited for a wave of revulsion that never came. That, in itself, was just a little disturbing. It wasn’t as if the Joker was handsome, and when it came to men, John didn't usually go for the queeny femme types. And he was a supervillain. John may have slept with his fair share of demons, devils, monsters and other assorted supernatural filth, but he didn’t exactly make it a habit to knowingly sleep with human supervillains — he wasn’t above most things, but it was still nice to think that there were limits even he wouldn’t cross.

Except.

Well.

The Joker wasn’t exactly asking for sex, now, was he? And where was the line between human and supernatural bastards, anyway? Some of the demons John had tumbled with had more blood on their hands than Joker could spill in his lifetime, and John had known it with most of them. It hadn't exactly not matterred, but he'd still bloody done it, hadn't he? Putting the line here, after all that, felt a bit hypocritical all of a sudden. And John was definitely chalking this one up to sleep deprivation, hunger and — well, maybe he wasn’t quite as sober yet as he’d thought.

Because there were definitely the first telltale sparks of a thrill lighting up in his chest as he held Joker’s eyes.

Don’t do this, you idiot, the voice in his head told him. It sounded suspiciously like Zee. This is a terrible idea and you won’t be able to un-do it once it happens. You’re going to have to live with it for the rest of your life.

Joker’s smile widened, and the sparks got a little harder to ignore.

“How do you know I even swing that way?” John wondered, playing for time.

“Call it a hunch,” Joker said with a shrug. “I do usually guess right when it comes to these things. Well?”

Don’t.

John was staring at the lipstick smeared around Joker’s mouth.

Don’t do this.

“Five seconds,” John said. “Mouths closed, no tongue.”

“One minute,” Joker countered, “mouth slightly open.”

“10 seconds.”

“50.”

“15.”

“30, and I promise I’ll keep it prim and proper.”

“Done.”

You bloody, pathetic idiot.

“And you don’t get to use that little trick you used when you played our demonic friend,” Joker stipulated. “I’ll know if you do, and then I’ll be very cross indeed.” He glanced around the square, indicating exactly how his being upset would manifest.

Ah, shit.

“All right,” John relented, “but I get to deal.”

“Be my guest.”

Truth be told, he wasn’t all that sure he was going to cheat in the first place, even if Joker hadn’t resorted to threats. The moment had been sobering, but not quite cold enough to douse that stubborn little flicker of excitement that now took hold in John’s chest. And wasn’t that just pitiful?

He dealt.

And won.

“Well, would you look at that,” John whistled, dousing his cigarette on the stone of the fountain.

“Again,” Joker demanded even as he handed over his packet to John. “I’ll toss in the lighter this time. I’m sure it’ll fetch you a nice little sum on the collector’s market.”

Yeah, John wagered it would. “Sure you don’t wanna play for something else?” he asked, even though there wasn’t exactly a whole lot he could offer at the moment.

The Joker’s eyes glinted as he took one last drag of his own cigarette, then flicked it into the fountain. His grin was all teeth. “Positive.”

Back away now, idiot.

“Okay,” John agreed, “round two.”

This time his hand wasn’t exactly strong, but he did get a queen — good lord, did he ever, Joker’s own cartoonish face grinning up at him from under a green, curly wig — and a nine of spades to go with it.

He looked at Joker, who lay his own cards down almost immediately.

No face cards. Ones, fours and sixes. No pairs.

John breathed out, and held out his hand for the lighter.

“Third time’s the charm?” Joker suggested.

John sighed. He knew this would come, and that he would go along with it, before Joker even said anything.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t up the stakes.

“This time we play for the cards,” he told Joker, and the thrill shot up into a blaze when he saw Joker stiffen all over. “I win, the deck stays with me.”

The Joker wasn’t smiling anymore. “No.”

“That’s my bid. Take it or leave it.”

“Here, how about this lovely rubber chicken? A vial of Joker Juice? They’re very valuable, all collector’s items. I could even throw in one of my joy buzzers, all custom made. You could make a fortune on that.”

“Nah.” John shrugged. “I like the cards. They grew on me. Reckon I could put them up in the house and throw darts at them when I’m bored.”

The Joker’s face was a mask of fury now. “Why, I oughta —”

“Or,” John offered, “we could just leave it and not play anymore. What do you say?”

The corner of Joker’s left eye was twitching. His mouth pursed tightly together, and his fingers drummed chaotically on stone. John tensed, and thought, okay, he may have gone just a teensy bit too far this time. Joker looked like he was half a poorly managed impulse away from drawing his gun.

But then his gaze darkened. “What do I say?” he echoed. “I say: full minute.”

No.

John swallowed. “Done.”

Joker nodded, though his face was still a picture drawn in tension. At this point, he didn’t look like kissing was what he wanted to do to John anymore. “Deal,” he ordered.

John dealt, and drew three tens.

When the Joker showed his hand, he was holding a Royal Flush.

“You cheated,” John protested. “No way you didn’t.”

Now back to full grin, Joker demonstrated his open hands, then tugged his gloves off and even shook out the sleeves of his coat. Various knicknacks fell out, including a rope made out of colorful hankies tied together, but no cards.

“Bollocks on that,” John insisted. “No way you could have got that without cheating. I should know.”

“I told you,” Joker crooned. “I’m a very lucky ducky tonight.”

“God, I wish it was duck season.”

“Oh, but it is. Now.” Joker gathered the cards close, collected them neatly and slipped them into the pocket of his coat. He looked up at John, the corner of his mouth curving back up. “My prize.”

There it was again — the thrill, that spark in him, more than just a glimmer of excitement as John held Joker’s toxic green eyes. From the answering tilt to Joker’s mouth, he guessed the clown saw it in him, and that’s when John knew he was done for.

He didn’t know just where the spark had come from, nor did he care. He was too tired for introspection. It had been too long, and, well.

Maybe he was just a little bit curious. And say what you want about the Joker, but up close, in this strange flirty, horny mood, the guy did have charisma and charm by the buckets.

His mouth looked so bloody red.

Jesus.

“Not here,” John decided, his gaze sweeping over the other inhabitants of the square. More and more of them were openly staring, probably intrigued by their card game, and he didn’t like the way they leered at the two of them. Not that he minded giving them a bit of a show, exactly, but…

“Follow me.”

He tugged Joker by the hand, and the clown didn’t try to resist.

John led the way across the square, ignoring the sparse jeers they got on the way. He ducked under the shadows of Admiralty Arch, where he pushed Joker up against a stone column.

“Ooh,” Joker teased. “Getting rough already? You haven’t even bought me dinner yet.”

His fingers were closing around John’s tie, pulling on it to tug him close. John let it happen. He put his hands up against stone, on either side of Joker’s head, herding him in.

“Tell me,” he said, Joker’s hand pulling him in even closer. “Do you ever shut up?”

This close, Joker’s eyes seemed to burn, acid green. The shade was almost vivid enough to match his hair — brighter, even. His mouth was redder up close, and John wondered, idly, how much of it was lipstick, and how much was acid.

“There’s one way to find out,” Joker whispered. His breath misted on John’s mouth, smelling of cigarette smoke and toxins.

John closed his eyes and leaned in, catching Joker’s mouth with his own before it could pull away; before the protesting voice in his own head got too loud.

The kiss did taste like lipstick, and like acid too. Cigarette smoke and sulphur, just a bit, underneath it all. Just a tang of ozone. A whiff of gunpowder.

Joker opened his mouth for him, still pulling at John’s tie, and John followed, bringing his hands to each sharp, snow-white cheek.

It had been too long. And this, he had to admit, wasn’t…

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, all things considered.

Maybe. If only for tonight.

“Well, now,” Joker breathed when John pulled away. His eyes held that same toxic-bright spark in them, and John thought he could see a hint of color creeping under his corpse-like skin under the distant light of the street lamps. “That was a bit longer than a minute.”

“Not very chaste, either,” John agreed.

“No.” Joker smoothed one hand down John’s tie, bringing the other to skim over his cheek. “Oops.”

John caught Joker’s hand in his own before it could retreat.

One night, he told himself. What’s another bad decision in a lifetime of bad decisions, anyway?

“Fancy another game?” he suggested, holding Joker’s eyes.

“And the stakes?”

John swallowed again; there was no mistaking the excited drum in his heart now.

“Tongue, this time.”

The Joker smiled.

* * *

“Your phone,” Joker breathed some time later, pulling away, his face warmed up in John’s hands.

“What?” John blinked.

It was still dark outside, and the stone of the Victoria Memorial was digging painfully into his back. He tried to sit up, and winced at the numbness in his arse from sitting on the ground for so long.

He peered up at Joker and repeated, “What?”

“Your phone,” Joker repeated, straightening up from where he was perched in John’s lap. “It buzzed.”

Oh.

Oh.

Well, shit.

John’s hand flew to his pocket, and sure enough, there it was, oozing drama and self-importance from just three words:

Where are you.

John looked up at Joker again, and showed him the text. “Reckon the date’s over.”

“It would appear so.” Joker was already standing up and readjusting his coat, jacket and the silk shirt underneath. There was a smile playing around on his mouth as he regarded John, and held out his hand.

John let out a hoarse laugh, and hoisted himself up to his feet on his own. The Joker shrugged, slipping the joy buzzer off his hand.

“It was worth a shot,” he said, completely unrepentant.

John looked down at the phone again, then to Joker. He caught his own reflection in the screen as it went dark — they both looked a fright.

Probably best if Bats didn’t see all the lipstick stains all over John’s face, though honestly John had no idea why the idea bothered him. It wasn’t as if Batman’s opinion of him could get any lower.

He sighed.

“Got any tissues?”

“Here.” Joker’s smile was downright gentle this time as he stepped up to John, shaking out one of those colorful handkerchiefs he had stashed up his sleeve. “Let me.”

John breathed out, and did. He stood still while Joker carefully dabbed the tissue around his face — mostly his mouth, but his cheeks too, and all the other areas of John’s face and neck he had deemed kissable over the course of the last… Christ, John didn’t even know how long. He only knew that they had lingered under the Arch for some time, and then taken off down the Mall, stopping every once in a while to snog up against a lamppost until they’d landed at dear old Victoria’s feet and decided to camp out here.

John didn’t think the old biddy would mind. She'd definitely seen worse, he’d bet his new cigarette pack on that.

Speaking of.

“One more for the road?” he offered, holding out the Pall Malls, and Joker laughed, fluffing up his hair.

“Oh, Batsy is not going to like this,” he sang even as he drew one cigarette from the packet. “He’ll complain about the smell all the way to Gotham.”

“I reckon there’s nothing about this adventure that Batsy is particularly going to like,” John guessed. “Maybe, uh… keep that last part between us?”

“Why, are you worried he might come after you?” Joker teased, coming to stand next to John and leaning back against the monument too as John lit both their cigarettes using his newly won fancy novelty lighter.

“Like a ton of angry black-clad bricks,” John agreed, slipping the lighter back into his pocket. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Joker murmured, and John finally texted back. He settled, and waited in a silence that felt far more companionable than it had any right to be.

By his estimate they had about five minutes to finish their fags.

The Bat-wing threw its mighty hulking shadow over them after two.

“Someone’s eager,” John commented under his breath, and Joker laughed, the cigarette trapped between two long fingers as he gazed up at the sleek silhouette of the plane bearing down to find a landing spot.

John didn’t bother putting out his own cig, and hung back while the Bat-wing finally sat its mighty arse down in the middle of the Mall and opened its hatch. One Batman exited, all pomp and circumstance and cape-billow, looking like a man in a right strop.

But then again, he always did.

“Darling,” Joker sighed, and John shot him a sideways glance just in time to catch that weird soppy look stealing into his eyes as he fixed them on Batman.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “So it’s like this, huh?”

“It’s always been like this.” Joker flicked his half-finished cigarette to the ground. “But please don’t take this personally, dear. Our trench coats don’t match — it would never have worked out between us.”

“Another night, another heartbreak,” John sighed, and let his mouth quirk up when Joker laughed. It was odd — the air felt clear between them now, downright light, and if it did also carry the faintly bittersweet tinge of John having been used that Batman’s broody presence brought, well… He’d used Joker, too. So maybe it was fine.

“I’ll try to survive this somehow,” he said, without any particular emotion behind it.

“Good lad.” Joker patted him on the shoulder, and then — in a move that startled John, considering that Batman was right there and getting closer with every self-righteous stomp — he leaned in and kissed John’s cheek, warm and soft and lingering.

“Thanks for showing a girl a good time,” Joker said, and laughed when Batman’s hand closed roughly on his shoulder to spin him around.

John took a slow drag as he watched Batman close a pair of cuffs over Joker’s wrists. They were customized, and had little bats on them.

John honestly didn’t know what the hell he’d expected.

“What happened?” Batman asked, and though the white lenses in the cowl hid his eyes, John could feel them searching his face all the same.

He shrugged. His charitable instinct reserves had definitely run out for the night, and it was with an unkind spark that he wondered if Bats could tell that John had spent a good part of the night snogging his clown.

“I’ll let clown boy tell you all about it,” he murmured. “Keep a better eye on your villains next time, will you? We don’t all have time to play babysitter whenever one of them gets a daft idea in their head.”

He kept his gaze steady and his posture slouched as Batman scanned him, that chiseled, monolith mouth never giving an inch. John suffered the scrutiny in silence, then inhaled, and let smoke drift into the cowled face, to Joker’s loud and giggly delight.

Batman didn’t seem phased by that. Not that he ever seemed phased by much of anything, far as John could tell.

But then —

“Thank you,” Batman said, and gave him a curt nod.

He turned, and pushed Joker ahead of him and into the plane before John could reply. The last thing he saw, before the hatch sealed shut behind the two men, was Joker glancing back over his shoulder and giving him a wink.

And then they took off, back to their own strange little world, and John watched them go, fag still in his mouth. One hand slipped into his coat pocket, and felt around the lines of Joker’s lighter.

And then he dropped the cigarette to the ground to stomp it in.

It was time to go home.