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“Bats, look!”
Joker points up at the sky, gloves blending into his skin. It’s anything other than a typical night. Bruce feels the difference in the air, floating and wavering above; a signal from Gotham herself to him. A personal letter, signed in her shaky cursive.
Rest, Knight…
Sometimes, Gotham talked. Sometimes, she didn’t say a word. Bruce just listens. He is merely a messenger for her will— her dignity.
Blood drips off his lips. The skyscraper overlooks the whole city. Lights everywhere, flashing and glaring and bright and dim. So beautiful, yet… so sad.
A lingering depression in every brick, stone, and layer of asphalt. Carved into the very surface of its earth, scorched upon her borders. She is marked by the blood and the bodies… and the bats. Bruce created a spot for himself in her legacy; in her honor and protection and admiration— and her everything.
Yet, as he stares at Joker, he realizes his perspective is skewed. He was always destined to be one with this city— always destined to be a symbol of its riches and success. He is Bruce Wayne, billionaire orphan. Of course, he’ll have a legacy here.
No, what he really wanted was for everyone else to see a different perspective. He wanted to be a symbol without a face— without expectations and limitations and ill-fitting suits. He wanted to be remembered by a different name. He needed to be Gotham’s protector... but never Gotham’s prodigy.
And, it brought him here, atop a LexCorp building, with little but blood and sour words on his tongue. They taste acidic and bitter all the same. They taste how Joker appears: toxic to the touch. Slow, effective poison in his veins; violent, aching, and addictive.
Whenever he sees Joker, there’s an itch under his skin. Seeking out the familiar pain and tragedies that accompany his presence. A dog coming back to the hand that feeds. Never needing to beg or bite.
His very aura makes it difficult for Bruce to breathe. Joker is staring up at the sky. It’s a rare sight: Gotham, unclouded by the fog or pollution, glittering with stars. He understands why someone may become speechless. He doesn’t understand why Joker is speechless.
He hates Joker’s speechlessness.
Bruises form across his neck and around his collarbone. They bloom in black and blue; stark against his pearlescent skin. He smiles crookedly, a cut broken open on his lip. His hair curls envy at his nape.
“Joker,” Bruce mutters. “Why did you lead me here?”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Isn’t this what people think is beautiful?”
“Joker—”
“It’s Halloween, Bats.” He says it so plainly; a matter of fact. “We deserve the day off.”
He wants to argue. He wants to fight and claw his way out of this position. He wants to glide off the rooftop and leave Joker alone; feel nothing— no regrets and no what-ifs. Bruce won’t do any of that.
“Stop it,” he whispers. He can’t say much more than that. But, it’s all Joker needs to hear. He pivots, mascara the slightest bit runny around his eyes.
“Stop what, darling?”
“You know what.”
Poison, poison, poison— singeing his tongue. Burning in his throat. Coiling around his stomach. Blurring his vision.
Joker has this effect on him. Something he can’t control. Something he has to bottle deep inside, no matter how much it unsettles him; how it makes him unsteady and how it clings to his soul, heavy and unwanted. Still, this part of him believes there’s something beyond the victims and the horror and the laughter.
Something hollow but real reflecting in all the red puddles.
Gotham is gorgeous tonight. It’s a clear sky, Jack-O-Lanterns alit across every street, and children walking in groups; visiting houses in colorful costumes. Laughter spreads and echoes even from above. Bruce stares past Joker, at his city— at the full moon glistening above.
Suddenly, Joker approaches him. His hands hang limply at his sides. His gaze pierces through Bruce— staring at a person he shouldn’t be.
“Come on, Batsy. I know you can do it. Just— just relax. Let it wash over you—”
“How many people have you killed tonight?”
The question is irrelevant. He’s killed more than enough people before today even began. He’s killed more people than Bruce has saved. He’s beyond the question.
The better question is: how many more people have to die before Bruce stops this? Before he ends this cycle with the right miscalculation or the perfect move? When will he finally take his Queen and win the match? When will their game finally end?
Knight, Gotham whispers. Who keeps him playing?
Bruce scowls.
“Nobody memorable comes to mind,” Joker says scratchily. He collects blood dripping off his chin and licks it from his gloved finger, staining vermillion in the fabric. His black and white tux is stained with splattered blood and sticks to his skin with sweat. “But… it doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re here. This moment? Let’s enjoy it.”
“This moment?” Bruce asks. It feels beyond them; a step past where they’ve ever been before. Because… before, it was just instinctive— intuitive, never certain and never sure. A feeling deep in his chest, hollowing his lungs and weighing down his heart. Making him want things. Making him want things he can’t explain.
For a long time, he wondered if it was merely his mind playing cruel tricks on him. He wished it had. But no, his body didn’t lie to him. It only told him the absolute truth, as much as he didn’t want to hear it.
“Yes, Bats. This moment. Right now… can you hear the streets?”
Laughter, the aroma of the holiday, and happiness permeate the air. Smiles follow tears and tears follow smiles. The dead are alive and happy and young and rushing with sugar across Gotham sidewalks. It’s Halloween, and it’s beautiful; it’s the city he loves more than himself— more than most people.
He can remember how he felt as a child during the holiday. He remembers the awful Halloween’s after his parents died. But, never once has he felt that same feeling as an adult. The giddiness, the flush of emotion, the incorrigible sweet tooth.
Not until Joker.
Bruce wants something bad for him. Something so horrible and vile and just— just dirty; sugar, candy, red, blood. Something metallic on his tongue. Something acidic breathing his breaths.
He can’t bring himself to say it. Can’t even bring himself to think it. Maybe, if he could confront it, he wouldn’t feel it to begin with. Maybe, if he could end it and move on, this would be nothing.
But, Bruce has never been that kind of person— even his one-night stands make him ache for a chance; withdrawn at the possibility of something more. It’s not just anyone, either. It’s always people he shouldn’t have. It’s always people he should hate having.
Joker leans closer into him, smirk widening into a coy kind of grin; boyish yet entirely otherworldly, too. His expressions never quite mimic human. They’re always a fraction off. It suddenly occurs to him— eyes flickering to his mouth— Joker’s lipstick is smeared.
His lips are dry and cracked; bleeding, cut at the bottom, and probably stinging. And, God, it feels tortuous to stare. Tortuous to keep his countenance neutral. Tortuous to have him so close… so near.
“A bat in your belfry?”
A clown in your closet, Gotham hums.
“Joker,” he murmurs. Low enough to sound faint; quiet enough to disappear among the stars. “Why are we talking?”
“Because, I like to hear your thoughts, darling. Because... we think alike.”
“What do we share?” Bruce asks. It’s not as biting as he thought it might be. It places a drop of sadistic glee into Joker’s mixing pot of emotions. Soon enough, it will boil over.
“Bats can see in the dark.” It’s unlike Joker to disregard his question when he could have the upper hand; when he could torture Bruce further. But, for some reason, he values this more. “What do you see in me? Why do you keep me alive?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Why do you keep me alive?”
It feels like they should have already had this conversation. But, neither dared to start it until now. It’s something Bruce never wanted to broach. Joker’s expression remains bemused; reveling in the position of power he holds over him.
“I need to save you.” The admission is cold, sending shivers up his spine; not as burning as it had felt on his tongue. Joker holds his gaze. In his eyes, a storm. Violent rainfall, roaring thunder, and a persistent whistle running through the wind; akin to uncanny laughter, alien. Briefly, Bruce wonders if that is how he sees him: painted in the same neon hues, present in the same whistling wind.
“What happens when you don’t?”
His choice of words is careful. Expert, even. Joker knows— just as Bruce does— this will end. Not if… but when.
“I don’t know.”
“I do— I’ve had a vision, Bats. A wondrous dream!”
“A vision?”
“You didn’t save me… and we were falling, falling, falling— right off this ledge!” Joker points toward the skyscraper’s edge. His gaze remains locked onto Bruce’s. “You and I fell together. We died together… and I think that’s rather— well, I think that’s what we should do.”
“You want me to jump off this building with you?”
“Why not? What’s the harm?” Bruce doesn’t answer. He remains rigid in place. The stars mock him senseless, glittering above and glittering in Joker’s endless eyes. Joker bellies a short string of laughter, but— in its wake— his lips thin at the following silence. “Oh, come on! That was funny.”
“Do you want to die?”
“I don’t want anything. I have it all, don’t I?” He twirls in place, tugging at the sleeves of his blazer and casting it aside carelessly. The white of his dress shirt isn’t nearly as white as his skin. It’s just a shade off. His fingers rise to his face and dance across his lips mindlessly. “I have you, Bats. That’s all I ever wanted.”
“You don’t have me,” Bruce spits. Gotham scoffs.
Doesn’t he?
Joker hangs his head limply, kicking something at his feet. Bruce watches him soundlessly. Softly, his cape begins to whip with the oncoming breeze.
When he finally does lift his head, he’s not smiling. He isn’t laughing. No, he’s frowning. The red puddles reflect in his eyes.
“Then, I have nothing.”
“Joker—”
“When will you accept this?” His scowl contorts into something vicious. “When will you spit out what you’re really thinking?”
“Accept what?”
Joker doesn’t need to hear anything else. Bruce has said enough. His peal of laughter rings painfully across the skyline. It’s a laughter he’s accustomed to; one he hears more often than not. He’s angered him— enraged him.
But... it enrages Bruce more. The fury works its way through his body, pumping him with the familiar craving of swollen knuckles and the alluring crunch of bones breaking under his touch. Joker’s laughter fades away as he takes notice of Bruce’s clenched fists. Even hidden in the dark of his cape, he still spots it; he always knows.
“What are you waiting for?” Bruce mutters. “If that’s what you want, do Gotham a favor. Give her what she’s due, Joker.”
Gotham perks her ears.
Knight, she coos. What are you up to?
“Oh, darling… I’m sorry. Did I upset you?” He drags his words with cynicism. “Are you in pain? Does it hurt when I touch it?” He strides forward, halting mere millimeters away from Bruce. “Do I make it worse?”
“You make me sick.”
“That’s the idea.” Joker smiles— and smiles rottenly; a mirthless amusement playing across his face. Bruce resigns. For a while, he doesn’t speak. He lets Joker bask in his small victory.
“I don’t want to be sick anymore.”
“Batsy, Batsy, Batsy. I hate to say it,— really, I do— but you aren’t ever getting better.”
“I don’t need to be better. I just need to stop getting worse.”
“I’m tired of wordplay, darling. Let’s talk like adults, shall we?” He reaches out and traces the symbol across his chest with a finger. “You want me dead? After everything?”
“No,” Bruce admits. “I don’t want it.” It tastes too sweet— much too sweet to be meant for him. “I don’t want your dream to come true.” Joker sours, but something else lurks behind his empty gaze and twitchy lips. Something too secret to be spoken.
“Why? Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it perfect for us?” Bruce doesn’t answer. Instead, he sighs. The sound seems to startle Joker, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“I have dreams, too… of us. There’s a house, and we live in it. It’s surrounded by hayfields. We’re… happy there.” Bruce pauses, swallowing. “The dream is always the same. We walk into the house, we go to the kitchen, and we talk until it gets dark. Then, we sleep in the same bed.”
Then, the bed sinks into the floorboards, and the room fills with blood, Gotham finishes.
For a moment, Joker is silent. Stunned doesn’t quite match the shock he displays. It’s layered, mixed with emotions Joker doesn’t have. Shouldn’t have.
“What… what do I look like?”
Bruce hesitates. What will the truth bring? What will it give Joker?
“Normal.” Joker shudders as Bruce says it. “Before Ace.”
“You didn’t know him,” Joker snaps. “You didn’t even touch him.”
“But, you’re still wearing lipstick.” Immediately, Joker softens.
“And you? Are you still wearing a cowl?”
“Yes.”
Joker hums quietly. He rests his palm flat against Bruce’s chest, drumming his fingers lightly. The wind whips his cape. Moonlight brightens the edges of Joker’s body.
“I can’t— I can’t be that.”
“I know.” Bruce smiles short, pained. “But, that’s what dreams are. Something we dream. They aren’t real.”
“They aren’t real,” Joker repeats, muttering it like a mantra.
That dream will never be real. So long as he is Bruce, and Joker is Joker. So long as blood binds them; as violence intertwines them and as death turns a blind eye. So long as death takes innocents in their place.
“I don’t want you to die, Joker. I just don’t want what we have to end.”
And, how selfish is that, Knight?
“But, it will end, Bats. Everything always does.”
“No,” Bruce says quietly. “I won’t let it.”
Don’t you ever think of all the lives it costs keeping him alive? Keeping him well?
“How romantic.”
The stars and the moon shine brighter. Sparkling in the night and illuminating the sky with pins of light. Constellations written clearly, breeze flowing softer. Bruce stares, and Joker soon follows.
“I think I see the Little Dipper,” Joker remarks. Bruce is silent as Joker leans his back against Bruce’s chest. He remains that way— silent and still— even as Joker begins whispering to himself. “You were joking. You were laughing. You were having fun. What happened? What happened, Jack? What happened to you?” Quietly, he laughs into Bruce’s chest. “Oh, that’s a funny one.”
“What did you see this time?” Bruce asks curiously.
“A wife!” Joker bursts with laughter. “She was— oh God, she was pregnant!” Bruce swallows down the bile.
She was real, Gotham whispers. You remember her name, don’t you, Knight?
Joker’s cackling bleeds into the sky, painting the stars red. Bruce looks away. His gaze flickers to Joker only to find he is staring back. His lips part for Bruce’s thumb to rest against the cut, laughter petering off.
October wraps around them colder. He breathes in every time Joker exhales, the scent... metallic, ashy. He’ll taste the same. Bruce dares to smudge his lipstick more, dragging his thumb down to the point of his chin.
“Joker,” he murmurs.
“Bats?”
Bruce quiets for a long time, unsure of what to say. What can he say? How can he stop this before it goes any further? How can he find the will to ignore the flutter in his chest and the pulse in his throat?
How can he stop the story from playing out again in his head? How can he prevent the fall? How can he save the man from falling? How can he save the man leaning against his chest?
The answer is always the same, bitter truth. He can’t. He never will. And, he can’t stop trying.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Joker says softly, turning back to the stars. “I didn’t dress up this year.”
“We wear costumes every night, Joker.”
Joker laughs hollowly.
“No, we don’t.”
And... at that, Gotham laughs, too.