Chapter Text
There are certain days when Bruce is thankful that he's mortal.
Those are the days when he sees Diana slump in her chair ever so slightly, when she thinks nobody is looking—but it doesn't escape Bruce's notice, just like the way he sees a weariness in Clark's eyes after every mission, looking like he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and never have to open them again.
Bruce knows. He often feels the same.
That's why he's thankful that he's mortal—perhaps one day, when Gotham no longer needs him, when the Justice League is renewed with fresh, eager minds—perhaps he won't have to open his eyes again.
But today isn't that day.
The Joker is laughing, smiling, his eyes unnaturally bright as they soar across rooftops on quiet, nimble feet, moving in an almost choreographed dance, one they've rehearsed so many times, one that is so close to flawless that it's eerie—but neither of them wants to ever perfect it, lest it become the last time they dance.
Because Bruce needs this, he needs the thrill of chasing the Joker into the night, both knowing that Batman will never catch him, never kill him, never—he hadn't even when the Joker had taken Titan and turned into that monstrosity—and Joker needs it too.
But there's something wrong tonight, there's a slowness in the Joker's step, a shake in the arm holding the knife, a haze in the green eyes that doesn't miss Bruce's notice. It's only when Bruce punches him in the stomach, not very hard, and Joker falls to the ground, genuinely wheezing, that he gets worried.
He drops to his knees beside the clown, rolling him over gently, perhaps more kindly than the Joker deserves, but Bruce can't bring himself to be harsh. The Joker is still smiling, but the corners of his mouth are twisted up in pain, not mirth. He helplessly clutches at Bruce's gauntlets.
Bruce is glad that the cowl covers his features, lest the Joker see the concern in his expression.
"What's wrong?" When there's no answer, he gently shakes the clown. "Joker?"
The Joker tries to grin at him. It's a pitiful sight, and something in Bruce's stomach sinks, though he doesn't quite know why.
"Poisoned," he rasps, through dry, painted lips. His eyes unfocus and focus again on Bruce.
"Poison—?" Bruce says, already preparing to lift the Joker, take him somewhere safe. He doesn't question his own actions—he knows it's better not to, at least not now. "I though you were resistant to most—"
"Titan," Joker says, so quietly that Bruce almost misses it.
The word doesn't quite register with Bruce at first, and when it does, he still doesn't understand. He carefully props Joker up against a thick pipe, crouching next to him. Against his own will, he reaches out to brush a strand of the Joker's hair out of his face, and doesn't miss the way he leans into Bruce's touch.
"The Titan reacted... strangely with my body," Joker explains, after a short pause. His breathing is shallow, but his words sharp and coherent. "It's killing me."
It's killing me.
"And," Joker says, with a sly grin, that seems much more characteristic of him. "It's poisoning you, and Gotham as well."
Bruce's heart drops. All gentleness forgotten, he pulls the clown up by the collar roughly and snarls, "What do you mean?"
The Joker looks smug. Bruce feels blind with anger—he wants nothing more than to punch the Joker in the face. "I've sent my blood to medical stores all across Gotham," he smirks. "If my calculations are right, then you have about eleven hours till it reaches some poor shmuck's bloodstream and poisons him."
"You sick bastard!" Bruce picks him up and throws him into the ground, his rage and satisfaction at hearing the Joker's arm break with a crunch so great that it almost numbs him. "How—how did you poison me?"
Joker gets to his feet unsteadily, the manic grin still on his face, blood trickling down from one corner of his mouth. He walks on unsure steps towards Bruce, into his space, till Bruce can feel his hot breath on his mouth. He feels a tiny prick at the base of his neck.
Too late, he lunges back, arms wildly flailing, hitting the Joker in the gut— too late, he sees the syringe in Joker's hand, empty, traces of blood inside the transparent walls.
Bruce can hardly contain himself. He doesn't want to. He kicks the Joker, punches him, till the clown's teeth break, till his gloves are more crimson than black, till the night is giving way to the dawn.
He flies off then, flies home, still shaking as he hears the Joker's cackle follow him through the city.