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It was Valentine’s Day. Like most holidays, it was a day of the year that the Joker had mixed opinions on. On the one hand, he hated the capitalist conformity of it all and never quite understood why all of the mushy relationship stuff had to be jam packed into a single square on the calendar. On the other hand, he found the lengths people would go to to impress their partners on the meaningless day to be quite hilarious, and the leftover candy going on sale was always a plus.
He also found a bit of hilarity in the sadness of the endless heartbroken couples and the countless lonely singles each year. However, while he prided himself on his ability to camouflage his authentic emotions and was able to find comedy in the constant that was the world’s chaos, the sadness of others always seemed to leave him with an empty sort of feeling. He couldn’t put a name to it exactly, but it was as if the sadness was radiating off of others' slouched and sunken forms, smearing onto him like a glob of greasy face paint.
This Valentine’s Day was different, though. Everything had been, really, since he had been staying with Bruce.
-
They never bothered to put a name to whatever the hell they were or whatever the hell their relationship even was. When they were together, Joker was simply Joker and Bruce was simply Bruce. That was that. Joker appreciated that Bruce never pried into the details of his past, and he allowed Bruce to open up and become the person he really was. The Joker had always preferred to leave his past where it rested, and Bruce respected his privacy in a way that was foreign to the clown, as it had almost become a game to him to make up fake backstories, concerning his scars especially. Humans were not creatures of patience after all, and people always seemed to be greedy for answers. But when they were just Joker and Bruce, he was able to act as his usual animated and chaotic self, covered head to toe in shining paint and his comfort attire, with bright colors and clashing patterns and all. In return, he allowed Bruce to be comfortable around him, to just be himself and not act out the part of the extraverted, invincible character that was his portrayal of the Batman or Mr. Wayne.
Just Bruce. Bruce who seemed to constantly be in a dark T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms when he was around the Manor. Bruce who would walk around barefoot because he didn’t like the feeling of socks, and who would take a shower early every morning on weekends only to change into a fresh pair of PJs. Bruce who would draw his mouth into a thin line when he was in deep thought, who would rock himself back and forth only when they were alone, and who he sometimes found crying on the bathroom floor deep into the night, whether it was from the nightmares or something he saw on the job or the overwhelming and inescapable loudness that was the Gotham City night bustle. Bruce, not Batman, not Mr. Wayne, but Bruce. Bruce, his whatever-the-hell-they-were, who smiled softly to himself while reading the comics section of the paper every morning and who explained they were really called “the funnies” because that’s what Alfred always called the comics, and Joker knew Alfred was important to him.
Bruce who stayed up late on weekends watching reruns of outdated science fiction shows, making sure to explain the lore and the names of the different actors, even entertaining the clown’s commentary on the corny special effects and the all too often unfortunate choices of costume. Joker liked those nights the most, he decided.
His mind drifted to the two of them the night before, silhouettes illuminated by the faint glow of the TV screen, curled up in the dark. That was their spot, resting against each other under a multitude of fuzzy blankets on the black leather sofa in the living room of Wayne Manor. Joker’s makeup was long wiped off by then, although sometimes he did forget to take it off before bed. Bruce never seemed to mind the traces of paint rubbing off on his clothes or his sheets, though.
Joker was wearing his PJs, he realized, as he lay in Bruce’s bed thinking fondly on the leisurely night before. He sighed. That means he remembered to change out of his suit at least. He loved his suit and his makeup to the point where they felt like part of his person, and he often did forget to change or wash up before bed, especially when he used to have late night jobs. He didn’t exactly mind sleeping in his suit or with his face painted, but he had often woken up in pain after long nights, and that made him appreciate his time with Bruce more in its own way. When he stayed at the Manor, he always had the promise of a warm bed and someone to be there for him - to remind him to take care of himself and to take care of him when he was sick.
-
The clown sat up from his side of Bruce’s bed, looking down at himself and feeling the fuzziness of his PJ bottoms between his fingers. He remembered when Bruce had lent them to him all those months ago, when he had first started staying there. His memory wasn’t always reliable, he knew, but he could still picture that first night in vivid detail. The pain especially. He remembered laying on the pavement, drenched from the rain and curled in on himself. The street was unwelcoming but not an unfamiliar resting place to the clown, as he had shivered many a night through in the signature menacing alleys of Gotham. At that point, it had gotten to where the pavement felt more homely than any cheap motel or temporary apartment he would stay in while on the job. The street was certainly more of a home to him when compared with the nauseating cells at Arkham, for that matter.
He remembered how frail he had been then, curled in on himself on the hard pavement, having gone days without food and hardly any water. The pain was not new for him, though, as he had been in pain for a long time. Some days it was easy to forget he was sick. With the adrenaline that comes with a life of crime and with his hyposensitivity to pain, he was no stranger to accidentally pushing himself beyond his limits. Yes, he had lived with the pain for a long time, but that night was the night he remembered the feeling of his body giving up on him. As he lay then, curled on his side in the darkened alley, he had closed his eyes and waited for his racing thoughts to settle.
Out of all of the doctors and “professionals” he had seen in his life, none of them ever really listened. Which was kind of hilarious looking back, the clown thought to himself, because they were essentially being paid to listen. None of them ever told him what was wrong with him that caused him to be in so much pain all the time. A few had thought he was making it up and many didn’t believe him or figured he was exaggerating. No one ever let him speak for himself and no one ever believed the “insane” patient anyways.
No, all those professionals and doctors were far too concerned with what was “wrong” with his head that he eventually stopped trying. “Freak,” as the doctors had called him as far back as he could remember, became his new badge of honor. He grew to carry himself with what he considered to be a rare authenticity, thank you very much. But no amount of confidence could lessen his chronic pain or his sickness or even give a name to it.
He had never been afraid of death, in fact, laying in the darkness of the lonesome alley that night, he would have welcomed the release it would have offered from the constant pain.
No, he didn’t fear death, but he remembered the feeling of himself slipping away. He remembered wishing for something then, wishing that there was someone that cared about him. For there to be someone out there that would take care of him or help him take care of himself, and that there would finally be someone there to help him.
He wasn’t sure how long he had laid there on the wet pavement or how much time had passed since he had collapsed from the pain. As he faded away, he remembered the feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder and a concerned, but familiar voice calling out to him.
-
That had been many months ago now, he realized. Many months had gone by since the Batman had taken him in. Joker remembered he once had joked to Bruce, near the beginning of their.. Relationship? Whatever they were since he had been staying at the Manor. He remembered he had received a scoff from Bruce in return for his joke that the Bat had taken him “under his wing.”
He thought of how much had changed since then and how if someone had walked up to him a year ago and told him that he and the Batman….
He would have laughed right in their face.
But now… Now, he laughed at their former rivalry as if it was petty. As if it was this silly childish thing.
They hadn’t outright said they had given up their roles as the Clown Prince of Gotham or as the Batman. In fact, Bruce did still leave on signal fairly regularly and still spent a lot of time in his cave, as it was his safe spot when the world was too loud or too bright or when the memories were too painful to bear. Signals were becoming less and less common these days though, and while crime rates in Gotham were still high, Joker knew the pigs didn’t exactly approve of Bruce’s style, no matter how much they needed him.
He and Bruce had been spending a lot more time together lately, especially since Bruce stepped down officially from his position at Wayne Enterprises. Joker had noticed that he seemed a lot happier around the Manor lately, more himself, as he started using the extra time to plan and organize different charity events around Gotham. He was especially passionate about disability activism and had been able to meet people through his charity work that he could connect with over shared experiences.
Joker himself hadn’t officially given up his life of crime, and he still planned schemes and wreaked havoc now and again, mostly for the thrill of the chase. After all, it was always fun to mess with Bruce. He was content, though, with spending most of his time at the Manor and focusing on his health, even helping Bruce with his charity work a little more than would be expected of a half-retired crime lord. He tried to lay low, as he was technically still wanted under the law, and while Bruce was a powerful man, he wasn’t exactly viewed favorably by the authorities either. But he really did enjoy when Bruce would introduce him to people in the mental health activism community. Meeting other mentally ill and neurodivergent people was something that had become really important to him since he and Bruce became close. Although, the clown supposed that he wouldn’t be the best spokesperson or advocate for the mentally ill community, as he had kind of lived up to the violent criminal stereotype.
He had never really thought that there was anything wrong with his brain or with the way he saw the world, though. Not because he didn’t think he did wrong, because he very much knew the difference between what society deemed “right” and “wrong,” but simply because he didn’t think that there could be anything “wrong” with a person’s mind. He knew, better than most, that man was evil beyond repair. He knew that just as well as he knew that life was meaningless and all that other philosophical nonsense. What he never quite understood throughout his life, and still didn’t understand now, was the popular belief that certain peoples’ brains were built incorrectly. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that the human brain, a creation of nature, could be deemed as flawed or as having something wrong with it, when it is natural in its occurrence.
-
His thoughts drifted back to all those months ago - to when Bruce had opened up about the abusive "treatment" he had been given in therapy as a child. The clown had held him then so close, close and tighter than ever before. The man who was the larger than life Batman had felt so fragile in his arms, clinging to his suit jacket as he cried in front of him for the first time. Joker remembered how he had surprised himself as he murmured soft, affectionate words to the other, voice barely above a whisper. He remembered taking off his gloves to run his fingers gently through Bruce’s hair as the other buried his face in the clown's chest.
Thinking back, he wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, with Bruce clinging to his purple suit jacket. The Joker often had trouble with memory and with telling reality from delusion, but he would always remember what Bruce had told him then, his voice a hoarse and defeated whisper in the space above the clown’s heart.
“There’s something wrong with me, Joker. The doctors… they… I’m different. I’ve always been different and I… They treated me like… Joker, I.. They treated me like I was a droid or from another planet or… I don’t know. They told me I was different. That they had to teach me how to act... around people. I’ve been acting like a different person for so long it’s like I’ve been playing out a part and I… I’m telling you this because I don’t know. I don’t know who I am anymore and… Because they acted like I wasn’t… that I wasn’t capable of understanding love and I…”
He remembered he told Bruce then that nothing was wrong with him, that he was good. So so good. That he tried to be good in a world full of evil and a world full of chaos. That he took it upon himself to be good in a world with no meaning. That he was kind and smart and generous and clever and the most genuine and caring person he had ever met.
“You’re filled with so much love that the pain and sadness of others hurts you as if it was your own.”
-
Joker decided, laying in bed that Valentine’s Day morning, that he didn’t believe there was a word in the insurmountable wall of chaos that was the English language that could accurately describe their relationship. Maybe there was a word in Klingon, but he would have to ask Bruce. Late night Star Trek reruns were his favorite after all, and while Joker didn’t have as much appreciation as Bruce did for the genre of science fiction, he did enjoy Kirk and Spock’s relationship, and of course when he and Bruce would get drunk and crack jokes, shouting at the TV screen in what Joker had donned “Shitting on Shatner.” Ableist transphobic prick who, in Bruce’s words, “tarnished Kirk’s legacy” because Kirk of course was “the epitome of gay hero representation.”
Joker finally rolled out of their shared bed after his long morning… or was it afternoon now? of pondering. He decided that it didn’t really matter whatever the hell they were, and he knew Bruce mattered to him a whole lot in a world he had always known to be cruel and devoid of meaning. In a weird way, he supposed that although the world had spat them both out and stepped on them for good measure, that ultimately the world was kinder than he had previously thought, and kinder to him than he probably deserved, for pitting him against his former arch nemesis so long ago.
-
He grabbed his purple hair tie from the night stand by his side of the bed and pulled his hair up into a messy sort of pony tail. Bruce wouldn’t be too thrilled, but Joker noted that he’d probably have to re-dye his hair soon, which would involve them both scrubbing out the tub all of the next day. It wasn’t the cleaning Bruce would be upset about, Joker knew, but he never wanted to disappoint Alfred or make him do any extra work.
Joker found himself thinking about them dying his hair together, listening to music and splashing each other with soap suds during the clean up after. The thought gave him a burst of happiness, and he began humming cheerily aloud as he made his way to the kitchen area while doing one of what Bruce called his “happy skips.”
As he skipped merrily into the kitchen, Bruce gave him an amused look that the Joker knew meant “I can’t believe you slept until 2 PM again” and wordlessly slid over a little plastic pack of most likely stale Valentine’s conversation hearts to the clown’s usual spot on the other side of the table. Joker found himself chuckling. The smile playing at his lips was more soft around the edges than his notorious menacing grin. That dainty little smile and that less shrill, more genuine laugh… a part of him hated it, but in a way, he grew fond of this side of himself as it felt like a strange extension of his identity that only showed itself around Bruce.
He accepted the candy offering and sat down at the table, still humming to himself. Bruce avoided his gaze but smiled fondly while looking down at the Sunday comics. Joker noted that his top teeth were drawn over his bottom lip - one of his excited faces. He had noticed Bruce’s lack of eye contact when he had first started staying at the manor. When Bruce was just himself and not the Batman or Mr. Wayne, and when it was just them. Eye contact always seemed to make Bruce anxious, and Joker never minded. He himself found social norms like the strict enforcement of eye contact to be rather authoritarian and unsettling anyways (not the good kind of unsettling, mind you).
He knew by now that Bruce’s intense stares when playing the Batman were largely performative and that putting forth that persona was uncomfortable for him. Much like Bruce’s gravelly voice and the exaggerated mannerisms he would adopt, his steady stare when he was playing the Bat was its own sort of mask in a way. Joker knew that being Batman, and Mr. Wayne too for that matter, had been draining for him.
The side of Joker’s lip quirked up as he opened the mini pack, scattering the candies out over the plate glass table. He took out the greens and purples and lined them up in a neat little row, picking out a green heart with a lopsided “You’re cute” stamped onto it. He flicked the candy across the table at Bruce who read the treat’s message and grinned, plopping it into his mouth.
Joker giggled. No, the clown decided, it didn’t really matter whatever the fuck their relationship was. There sure as hell wasn’t a word in the English language, or even Klingon, that could accurately sum up the amount of love he felt for Bruce in that moment.