Chapter Text
The giant, gilt-edged mirror in the Penguin’s private dining room reflected a truly ridiculous tableau. Bruce Wayne, still in the impeccably tailored charcoal suit he’d been wearing to a charity gala, was lashed to a Chippendale chair with what felt like industrial-grade extension cords. A purple feather boa from one of the Iceberg Lounge’s showgirls was tied around his mouth as a makeshift gag, though it was doing little to stifle his indignant sputtering.
“I’m so glad you all could make it,” Bruce said, the boa fluttering with each exasperated breath, “but can you, like, untie me and let me go? I’m meant to be having drinks with the girls, and I have Pilates in the morning. My instructor says if I miss another session, my core will stage a rebellion.”
Harley Quinn, perched backwards on a velvet dining chair opposite him, clicked her tongue. She was dressed in her classic jester get-up, but had forgone the mallet for a clipboard she’d clearly stolen from a psychiatrist’s office. “Brucie, baby, we have to talk about the Bat.” She tapped the clipboard with a pen. “This is an intervention. A really, really necessary one.”
Bruce’s brows furrowed, his expression shifting from annoyance to genuine confusion. “Oh? What about him?”
Two-Face, his scarred side a grim rictus in the low light, leaned forward from his spot at the head of the table. “Bruce, doll, he’s no good for you.” His good eye was filled with what looked like paternal concern. “You’re a catch, a billionaire, a philanthropist. You could have anyone. Why settle for… that?”
Bruce’s mouth fell open. “Huh?”
Penguin waddled closer, brandishing a cigar. “Bruce, my boy, listen to me. The Bat is not a good guy. He’s a menace! Look at what he did to my guy Tony.” He gestured with his cigar to a hulking goon in the corner who was clutching a raw, bloody steak to a truly spectacular shiner that was rapidly turning a deep, mottled purple.
Goon Tony whimpered, shifting the steak. “He said I had a ‘punchable face,’ Mr. Cobblepot. Then he punched it.”
Bruce’s gaze darted between the goon and the gathered villains, utterly lost. “I have no idea what you’re all—”
The Riddler, who had been lurking in the shadows, chose that moment to glide forward. He rested a single, manicured finger against Bruce’s lips, effectively silencing him. “Shhh, Bruce. You have to learn to love yourself. Bats is trash.” He said it with the finality of a scientist declaring a hypothesis proven. “He’s a brooding, emotionally constipated ghoul with a fetish for gargoyles and a concerning lack of a sense of humor.”
Poison Ivy, a carnivorous plant coiled around her arm like a serpent, nodded sagely. “He’s toxic. The very embodiment of patriarchal, vigilante violence. He’s emotionally unavailable and his whole aesthetic is ‘my parents are dead.’ It’s a massive red flag, darling.”
Bruce stared at them, his brain short-circuiting. He processed the situation: he was tied to a chair in the Penguin’s private lair. The entire rogues’ gallery was here. They had kidnapped him. But not for ransom. Not for a nefarious plot. They were staging an intervention because they thought he was dating… himself.
A hysterical bubble of laughter threatened to burst from his throat, but he swallowed it down. He knew a futile attempt when he saw one. He knew the Rogues’ logic, once locked in, was as impenetrable as a brick wall. The picture in the Gotham Gazette that morning had been damning. Batman, carrying a drugged and unconscious Bruce Wayne out of a crumbling warehouse in a classic, swooning bridal carry. Of course, they’d all seen it. They’d all jumped to the most entertaining conclusion.
The truth, however, was far more mundane and infinitely more embarrassing. It wasn’t even him. It was J’onn J’onzz, who had been helping with a case involving a psychic villain. Bruce had been incapacitated, and J’onn, in a moment of panic, had shifted into the form of the one person guaranteed to clear the streets, aka Batman and had scooped him up in the most convenient way possible. He’d taken a human form, not considered the photographic evidence. And now, here he was, in a room full of his greatest enemies, being told he could do better than himself.
It was, he had to admit, a little touching. In a deeply, deeply deranged way.
He took a breath, the boa fluttering, and decided to play the only card he could.
“But I love him.”
The effect was immediate. A collective gasp rippled through the room. Harley’s clipboard clattered to the floor. Penguin’s cigar fell from his mouth. The Riddler actually clutched his chest. For a moment, the only sound was Goon Tony’s wet sniffling.
Then, the doors to the dining room slammed open. Every villain spun around.
The Joker stood in the doorway, still wearing his rumpled purple suit. He had a pair of novelty sunglasses pushed up on his forehead and was tossing a set of car keys in his palm. He froze, his painted grin faltering as he took in the scene: Bruce tied to a chair, the Rogues arrayed around him like a concerned, dysfunctional family, and the pregnant silence hanging in the air.
He squinted, his head tilting like a curious bird. He pointed a single, long finger at Bruce. “What the fuck is that?”
He held the pose for a beat longer. Then, a single, choked sound escaped his lips. It was a wheeze, quickly followed by a sputter. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, his entire body wracked with silent, hysterical laughter.
“Pfft—I—hahahaha—no—you—him—HAHAHAHA!” He stumbled back, bracing himself against the doorframe as tears started to stream down his face, cutting white rivulets through his makeup. He slapped his knee, utterly lost to the absurdity. “Oh, this is—this is rich! You—he—Oh, I can’t—I need—I need a minute!”
And with that, he turned, still howling with laughter, and fled the room. The sound of his hysterics echoed down the hall, a maddening, gleeful cackle that faded into the distance.
The remaining Rogues exchanged confused glances. Harley picked her clipboard off the floor.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “He’s no help. As I was saying, Brucie, we have a pamphlet…”
Bruce just sighed, letting his head fall back against the chair. He supposed he deserved this. It was certainly better than being held for ransom. And if he was being honest, seeing Joker lose his mind like that was almost worth being tied up.
Almost.