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The night had been merciless. Gotham’s skyline was jagged with broken glass and low fog, the city holding its breath after hours of blood and chaos. Batman had spent hours pushing himself through the streets, chasing one lead after another until his body threatened to give out. The Talons were back in the city, a whisper of the Court slipping through the cracks. He’d fought three of them tonight, maybe four, he’d lost count after the third blade slipped across his ribs.
He could’ve gone back to the cave. He should’ve. Alfred would have scolded him, fussed over the cuts, forced him to sleep for once. But the thought of that cavernous emptiness waiting for him, the cold hum of the Batcomputer, the silence that came after Alfred retreated upstairs, Bruce couldn’t stomach it.
So his path bent somewhere it shouldn’t.
The Joker’s hideout was tucked beneath a mural of his own face, crude and grinning, the paint smeared by years of rain. Inside, the air was thick with greasepaint, whiskey, and a faint metallic tang, gun oil, blood, something burnt. Piles of playing cards on the table, half painted canvases stacked against the wall. An oversize couch that had seen better days. A den of chaos, a place Batman should have torn down months ago, and yet a place Bruce’s feet had carried him before. Too many times.
Joker sprawled on the couch like a cat too comfortable to move, pale skin ghostly in the dim light. His hands fidgeted with a deck of cards, snapping them back and forth in restless rhythm. He tilted his head, studying Bruce’s battered silhouette. His head tipped lazily against the cushion, green hair mussed, eyes glinting sharp as glass. “Well, well, well,” he purred, voice slicing through the silence. “Look who dragged his sorry carcass to my doorstep. You look like a meat grinder’s Valentine.”
Bruce didn’t answer at first. He locked the door behind him. He moved slowly, every step sending a dull throb through his legs, his side, his shoulders.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” Bruce muttered finally, voice hoarse under the cowl. It nearly was a lie.
That earned him a grin. “Oh, darling. Don’t say things like that.”
The Caped Crusader removed the cowl, setting it on the table with a quiet thud. His hair was damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead. He didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see what was in Joker’s eyes. The Clown sat up, attention sharpening, his grin faltered. “You’re bleeding, Batsy.”
“I’ll manage.” Bruce’s voice was gravel.
Joker clicked his tongue, wagging a card between his fingers. “Manage? You can barely stand. And darling, as much as I love a man who suffers for his city, I don’t fancy scrubbing you out of my carpets.”
Bruce pressed his palm to his ribs, wet warmth seeping through. The thought of cleaning wounds in Joker’s lair made his stomach knot, but his body was done arguing. The adrenaline had drained from him hours ago.
Joker rose suddenly, gliding toward him in that uncanny mix of menace and grace. He tilted his head, studying Bruce the way a cat studies a broken bird. “You stink of blood and sweat. And not in a fun way.” he pondered “Shower. Now.”
Bruce arched his brow. “Seriously?”
“Think of it as… pest control,” Joker quipped, but his voice lacked its usual edge. He reached past Bruce, flicking on the hall light. The bulb sputtered before catching, illuminating a narrow corridor leading to a bathroom. “Go on. I promise I won’t peek, unless you want me to.”
Bruce gave him a look sharp enough to cut, but the idea of hot water against his skin was too tempting, so he moved past Joker and stepped into the bathroom. The space was surprisingly clean; cracked tiles scrubbed down, a mirror with only one corner webbed in fractures, a mismatched set of shampoo bottles lined the sink. Joker’s attempt at normalcy, perhaps. Bruce stripped out of the suit piece by piece, laying the armor carefully on the counter. His body ached, painted with purple bruises and thin red cuts. He caught his reflection in the mirror: not the Bat, just a man with tired eyes and blood on his skin.
The water sputtered before rushing warm over him. He stood beneath the spray, letting it wash away grime, smoke, and blood. Tonight's sins sluicing down the drain. His shoulders sagged. For the first time in hours, he allowed himself to breathe.
Behind the door, Joker hummed faintly. The tune was warped, broken, but unmistakably soft. Bruce closed his eyes, listening despite himself. When he stepped out twenty minutes later, damp hair clinging to his forehead, he found a towel draped over the rack that hadn’t been there before. Joker had left it for him. Bruce dried himself off, pulled on the baggy sweatpants he found on the toilet lid, and opened the door.
Joker was waiting in the hall, leaning casually against the wall with a cigarette dangling unlit between his fingers. His gaze swept over Bruce, lingering on the constellation of bruises scattered across his chest. “Mm. All cleaned up. And still a mess. You’re hopeless, you know that?”
Bruce brushed past him without replying, back into the main room. The couch looked suddenly more inviting than any bed. He sat heavily, towel still draped over his shoulders. Joker flitted after him, grabbing a tin of antiseptic wipes and a roll of gauze from a drawer. “Don’t pout, Bats. Let mama take care of you.”
He stepped back, rummaged through a drawer, and returned with a tin of antiseptic wipes and some gauze. Bruce shot him a glare, but didn’t move when Joker knelt in front of him, legs folding beneath sharp angles. The clown’s touch was surprisingly careful as he cleaned a cut along Bruce’s ribs, his hands steady, the occasional wince flickering across his painted face.
The antiseptic stung. Bruce didn’t flinch. He was used to pain. What he wasn’t used to was the strange quiet that followed. “You don’t have to do this.” Bruce muttered.
“Oh, but I do.” Joker’s voice softened, stripped of its theatrics. His thumb brushed absently near a bruise. “Because if I don’t, someone else will. And we can’t have that.”
The silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of gauze. For a moment, Bruce let himself exist there, in the warmth of another’s presence, in the absurd intimacy of being cared for by the man who’d destroyed so much. It was grotesque, and yet his chest loosened, his pulse slowed.
“This isn’t sustainable,” Bruce said finally, voice low.
“What isn’t?” Joker’s eyes flicked up.
“This.” Bruce gestured between them. The space thick with unspoken things.
Joker’s grin faltered. His hand lingered against Bruce’s side a beat too long before pulling away. “You’ve been saying nonsense for years. I'm not the one who put a chain around your neck and dragged you here, remember?”
Bruce should have stood, should have ended this before it twisted deeper. But he stayed, towel draped around his shoulders, Joker’s hands brushing against his skin like the world’s cruelest comfort. Joker’s grin softened into something small. His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Just…stay.”
Bruce looked at him, searching for the inevitable lie. But Joker’s eyes shone wet in the dim light, laughter caught in his throat. Against every rule he’d ever lived by, Bruce nodded.
Joker busied himself with the first aid tin, humming tunelessly as though to distract from the weight of what had just passed between them. He finished taping the gauze and then leaned back on his heels, studying Bruce with eyes that were too sharp, too vulnerable.
“There,” he said at last. “Good as new. Well, good as a used car with three missing tires.”
Bruce huffed, not quite a laugh but enough to make Joker’s grin twitch wider. The silence that followed was nothing like the silence they had shared on the roof with their fists raised. This time, it was too loud, begging for words that neither of them knew how to say.
Joker broke it first. “You know, I don’t do this for just anyone. Patch them up, let them drip all over my floor, sing them lullabies. You’re special.” His tone was teasing, but his gaze didn’t waver.
Bruce swallowed, throat dry. “Special isn’t always good.” Joker handed him the glass of water he had prepared beforehand, and Bruce drank it down immediately.
“Oh, darling, you wound me.” Joker pressed a hand to his chest, mock-dramatic. Then, softer: “But you’re right. You’re not good for me, and I’m not good for you. That’s what makes it special.”
Bruce closed his eyes briefly, the weight of that truth pressing against him. He wanted to argue, to insist there was a line here that should never have been crossed. But he was tired of lines, tired of pretending he didn’t keep coming back. When he opened his eyes again, Joker was watching him with an expression Bruce couldn’t decipher. Almost… afraid.
“Do you ever…” Joker’s voice faltered, rare hesitation cracking through the rhythm of his words. “Do you ever think about what this is? What are we?”
Bruce’s chest tightened. He forced the words out, rough and honest. “Too often.”
Something flickered across Joker’s face, relief, maybe, or terror. He looked down, fingers worrying the edge of his cuff. “Thought so. Because if I’m the only one thinking about it, that makes me pathetic. And I can’t be pathetic, Bats. Not with you.”
Bruce leaned forward slightly, towel sliding from his shoulders. His voice dropped to a murmur. “We're both pathetic.”
Joker’s laugh cracked. “Don’t say that. You’ll ruin everything.”
The room was too small, the air too thick. Joker’s knees brushed against Bruce’s, neither of them moving away. The tension was there, humming in every breath, comfort bleeding into something more intimate.
Bruce reached out before he thought better of it, fingers brushing Joker’s wrist. The skin was warm, the pulse beneath it quick, the clown froze, then tilted his head, a grin curving slow and trembling across his face. His acid green eyes dilated.
“Well,” he whispered, voice suddenly hoarse. “If you’re going to touch me, Batsy… don’t stop at my wrist.”
Bruce’s breath caught. He knew he should let go, knew the city needed him steady, untangled from this madness. But he didn’t pull back. His thumb traced the faint smear of makeup along Joker’s skin, and the clown shivered.
Suddenly, the universe seemed to collapse into this single room. Eyes tracing skin, breaths gathering where words could not. Just the two of them, clinging to the only person who saw them in full.
Joker leaned in slowly, like he expected to be pushed away. “Stay,” he whispered again. “Just… stay, for a little while longer.”
And Bruce, against everything he was, everything he swore to be, whispered back:
“I will.”
Joker’s wrist twitched under Bruce’s touch, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull away or lean closer. Bruce’s thumb lingered, circling the pale skin, and the smallest sound slipped from Joker’s mouth, half laugh, half gasp.
“Careful, darling,” Joker murmured, words quivering with a grin that didn’t quite land. “Do you really want this?"
Bruce’s eyes darkened. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t?”
The silence that followed cracked open like thunder. Joker’s smirk faltered, his painted mouth parting in surprise. His body went very still, his knees still touching Bruce’s. The Clown didn’t have a quip ready so he tilted his head just slightly. “Say that again.”
Bruce didn’t. He leaned forward, closing the last inches, and caught Joker’s mouth with his.
The kiss was rough, unpracticed, teeth clashing in a desperate crash. Joker let out a strangled laugh against Bruce’s lips, fingers tangling in damp black hair, dragging him closer, Bruce groaned low in his chest, the sound of a man surrendering a war he’d fought for too long.
Joker tasted of whiskey and sugar and copper, sharp, dangerous, addicting. His tongue swept against Bruce’s like he was claiming territory, like this was another battle he was determined to win. Bruce answered with a grip to his jaw, steadying, forcing the clown to match his rhythm instead of spiraling out. When they broke apart, panting, Joker’s eyes were wide, wild, pupils blown black. A smear of red had transferred to Bruce’s lips, clown paint staining the Bat. Joker laughed, but the sound cracked, almost tender. “Well. That’s one way to confess.”
Bruce’s voice was ragged. “You will be the death of me.”
“Oh, I know,” Joker whispered, pressing their foreheads together. “That’s what makes it so deliciously wrong.” His hands slid down Bruce’s chest, over bruises and bandages, reverent, like he was cataloging every wound. “You’re breakable, Bat. And you’re letting me see it.”
Bruce’s grip tightened on Joker’s wrist, pinning it briefly against his side. “And you’re letting me see you.”
Then he lunged again, kissing Joker harder this time, biting at his lip until the metallic tang of blood bloomed between them. Joker didn’t pull back. If anything, he pulled his knight closer, their bodies colliding with bruised chests and restless hands. The towel slipped from Bruce’s shoulders, hitting the floor. Joker pushed him back against the couch, straddling his lap with a grin too sharp to be tender, too real to be false. His paint smeared against Bruce’s skin as he pressed open mouthed kisses down his throat, leaving chaotic trails of red and white.
Bruce’s hands found his waist, fingers digging into sharp hips through the thin fabric of Joker’s shirt. The control was about holding him there, keeping him, grounding them both in the madness. Joker gasped a laugh against his collarbone, breath hot, voice breaking. “God, Batsy, you’re ruining me.”
Bruce’s answer was a growl, his lips brushed soft against Joker’s temple like a secret apology. Neither of them knew if this was salvation or damnation, but the tension had finally snapped, and neither of them cared enough to stop.
Joker's heart pounded in his chest as Bruce's hands moved lower, pushing down his trousers. His cock sprang free, half-hard, and Bruce's eyes widened with appreciation. "You're beautiful," he whispered, his hand wrapping around Joker's. He stroked slowly, his grip firm yet gentle, and the Clown groaned, his hips bucking involuntarily.
His touch was like fire. Joker panted, his hands reaching for Bruce's waist. He pulled Bruce closer, their cocks pressing together, and Bruce's eyes fluttered closed as he ground against him. Their breaths mingled, their lips brushing in a slow, sensual dance.
"Let me" Bruce whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. He sank to his knees, his hands gripping Joker's thighs as he took the clown's cock into his mouth. Joker's head fell back, a low moan escaping his lips as Bruce's tongue swirled around his cock, his lips sucking gently. He could feel Bruce's hands on his hips, guiding him, and he thrust gently, his hips moving in time with Bruce's rhythm.
Bruce's mouth was hot and wet, his tongue tracing the sensitive underside of Joker's cock. The clown could feel his orgasm building, his body tensing as Bruce's fingers dug into his thighs. Bruce murmured something, but Joker couldn’t focus long enough to catch the words, his voice vibrating against Joker's cock, by now, it was fully hard. He could feel Joker's hands in his hair, guiding him, he could feel Joker's hips moving in time with his rhythm. Bruce's tongue swirled around the head, his lips licking it gently, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He pressed kisses all over Joker’s shaft. Everywhere his hands could reach, he held on tightly, grounding himself in the other man’s presence. Above him, Joker’s uneven breaths filled the air as his lover gave the head a few more licks. Then he took it all in without hesitation, letting his tongue, the warmth, the muscles in his throat and instinct take over. And when he looked up, there was only a man stripped bare by intensity, Joker’s teary eyes had long since given in to the strain.
'C'mon...Bats...Bruce..."
Joker’s fingers tightened in Bruce’s hair, a shiver breaking through him as he bit back a moan. Whatever he did only seemed to drive the man below further, and he hollowed his cheeks as he tried to take the cock deeper into his throat. Joker’s thighs shook and he forced a thrust forward slightly to push the boundary a little with the Bats. Joker really wanted to explode, and he did. His breathing didn't get any slower as underneath him, Bruce swallowed all his cum, and the splattered parts on his inner thighs.
Bruce moved, left the man's body for a second, as green eyes glowed and were still watching him in the hazy space where the only light was the moonlight coming through the window and the hallway lamp. Bruce reached for the small wooden cabinet next to the sofa, rummaged through the drawers and immediately returned to touching the hot porcelain skin with lube in hand. Joker's breath hitched as the darkhaired man bent down below, pouring lube into his hand and onto Joker's already tense lower body part, Bruce's fingers moved lower, tracing the sensitive skin behind his balls. He gasped as Bruce's fingers slid into his ass, his body tensing as he was filled. Bruce's eyes met his, a wicked smile playing on his lips as he began to finger him, his movements slow and deliberate. It didn't take Bruce long to find where he was looking, for the clown's body was like a map he had long memorized.
"Bats..." Joker moaned. Bruce's smile widened, and he leaned forward., his tongue tracing the sensitive spot behind Joker's ear. "Tell me, what you need," he whispered, his fingers moving faster, rubbing against Joker's prostate. The clown could feel his orgasm building again, his body tensing as Bruce's fingers moved deeper, his thumb rubbing the testicles in slow, deliberate circles.
"Please," Joker begged, his voice hoarse with desire. "you..." Bruce's fingers still rubbing against his prostate. "I want to feel yours inside me. I want you to fill me...please, Bats."
Joker's breath hitched as Bruce stood, his hands moving to his own sweatpants. He pushed them down, his cock was hard and ready. His blue eyes widened, Joker spread his legs, presenting himself to Bruce, his fingers reaching back to spread his cheeks. "Take me," Joker whispered, his voice laced with desire. "Take me, Bruce. Make me yours."
Bruce's heart pounded in his chest as he moved behind Joker, his hands gripping the clown's hips. He positioned himself at Joker's entrance, his cock pressing against the tight, hot flesh. He pushed forward, his body tensing as he was enveloped by Joker's heat. The Clown moaned, his body relaxing as Bruce filled him, his fingers digging into his lover's thighs.
"Gods," Bruce groaned, his hips moving in slow, deliberate thrusts. "You feel...so good."
Joker's moans filled the room, his red lips blurred, trembling with each call of Bruce's names, his body moving in time with Bruce's thrusts. Bruce could feel his orgasm building again, his body tensing as Joker's muscles clenched around his cock. His body pressed against the green haired man's chest, his teeth biting into the other man's collarbone and his tongue licking the blood that had started to form after the bites. Bruce's hand moved from Joker's thighs to his chest, his fingers tracing the clown's nipples, now hard and erect. He rolled them between his fingers, a slow, deliberate motion that made Joker gasp and arch his back. "You're so sensitive," Bruce murmured, his voice laced with a mix of wonder and desire. He leaned down, his tongue replacing his fingers, licking and sucking at Joker's nipples. Joker let his voice out louder, his hands dug his nails into Bruce's hair, then the back of his shoulders, guiding him, urging him on, choking on a moan. Bruce wanted to move faster, but he held back. His focus on Joker's pleasure.
Joker's breath hitched as Bruce's teeth grazed his nipple, a sharp, delicious pain that sent a jolt of pleasure straight to his cock. His body tensing as Bruce's tongue and teeth worked their magic. Joker’s insides were stretching with the pushes and pulls, and his stomach was bulging with Bruce's cock that pressed against the walls of his abdomen. Joker was overstimulated by the way Bruce didn't spare any sensitive spot on his body. The touches, the groping, the kisses, the thrusts that gradually became more rough, the heavy breathing and the deep moans coming from Bruce's throat...all of it was abusing him and he couldn't hate it, while Bruce's blue eyes always found Joker's face when he had the chance to open them.
"Please," Joker begged, his voice hoarse with desire. "Please, Bruce. Let me come." Bruce's fingers moved lower, tracing the sensitive skin of Joker's stomach, his cock, his balls. He gripped Joker's cock, stroking it slowly, his thumb rubbing against the tip and he pushed forward, thrust harder, and they moved together, their bodies entwined, their hearts pounding in time. The curse binded them all. Bruce knew that he was lost, that he was bound to this nightmare, to this madness, to this love. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
As Joker's semen splattered a second time between their bodies, Joker let out a sound that was a mix of choked sobs and countless variations of Bruce-Batman's name. But Bruce didn't stop, placing two white legs one on his shoulder, one held tightly by Bruce's hand to the sofa to keep it from moving too much, he did it again and again, and again until Joker no longer had the strength to scream his name anymore. His legs gave out and tears streamed down his face, but when Joker felt the warmth of Bruce's cum inside him, he sank as deep as he could and let Bats do the rest. Shallow, desperate thrusts sent his cock twitching one last time, and all that was left was heavy breathing and a limp body.
Both of them bore the evidence of what had passed between them, each mark a silent confession left on skin. Bruce’s back carried the faint sting of fresh scratches, thin lines where control had faltered and need had taken its place. Joker’s skin was flushed deep red, heat blooming where touch had lingered too long, some bruises and bite marks. Their bodies spoke for them in the aftermath by proof of how far they had gone to reach each other.
Finally, Bruce pulled out, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. He turned Joker around, his hands cupping the Clown's face as he leaned in, his lips capturing Joker's in a kiss. Their tongues danced, their bodies pressing together, and Bruce could feel both of their desires being satisfied. His cock rested against Joker's thigh.
The air between them felt charged, too dense to breathe. Every movement seemed to pull the room tighter, every exhale winding the thread that connected them. Nothing graceful remained. Sweat gathered where skin met skin, and every small tremor felt like it could tear something loose. Joker’s breath hitched again, a shudder running through him that Bruce felt like a shock beneath his hands. The sound that cracked open the air blurred down to pulse, warmth, the thrum of blood beneath skin and made Bruce’s heartbeat stumble.
Bruce touched his cheek with the back of his hand, wiping at the smears, suddenly aware of how ragged they both looked, damp hair, bruises, and smeared greasepaint between them. Joker finally pulled back, lips swollen, paint smeared across Bruce’s mouth and chin like war paint. He licked his lips, tilting his head.
“We’re a mess, Batsy. And not even the fun kind.” His laugh was softer this time, sheepish. He tapped Bruce’s chest and slid off his lap. “Come on. Round two with the shower again. I'm serious.”
Bruce gave him a look, but didn’t argue. They moved to the bathroom together, the tile still damp from Bruce’s earlier rinse. This time they didn’t touch, not really, just moved in the same space, steam curling between them. Joker scrubbed at his face until the paint ran in pale streaks down the drain, humming under his breath, while Bruce rinsed off sweat and everything. Joker burst into laughter as he found himself patching Bruce up yet again. Luckily, the blood had dried in streaks down Bruce’s side and the wound wasn’t serious, bled less than it should’ve, slipping past their attention in the chaos.
When they emerged, Joker tugged on a loose shirt with faded playing card print, and Bruce slipped into that black cotton pants again. Only then did they settle back into the main room. The couch creaking under the weight of them both. He was grinning, but it was a small, shaky thing, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
“Mm. Need a smoke,” Joker muttered, sliding off Bruce’s lap with a flourish that didn’t hide the tremor in his hands. He fished a battered pack from the table, stuck one between his lips, and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The tip flared orange, a tiny star in the dim room.
He took a long drag, holding the smoke deep in his lungs, eyes never leaving Bruce. Then, with a slow exhale, he leaned back down—close enough that Bruce could feel the heat of him again. Joker tilted his head, lips curling around the cigarette.
“Open up, darling,” he whispered, voice low and wicked.
Before Bruce could protest, Joker pressed his mouth to his, a push of smoke between their lips, warm and heady. Bruce inhaled, tasting nicotine and whiskey and Joker all at once. He couldn't remember the last time he smoked. College? He didn't think it was messy, reckless, addictive like this moment. And Joker pulled away from him for a moment to take a long drag then immediately returned to the other man's lips. When they parted, Bruce let the smoke out slow, eyes half-lidded. Joker’s grin widened, sharp and satisfied.
“There,” the clown purred, brushing a thumb across the smear of red on Bruce’s cheek. “Now you’re poisoned just like me.”
Bruce caught his wrist, holding it firm but gentle. His voice was quiet, rough. “Maybe I already was.”
Joker just stared, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth, as if the world had just shifted under both of them. And for tonight, neither of them tried to set it right again.
The cigarette dangled between two long fingers, its ember glowing faintly in the dark. The taste of smoke still lingered on Bruce’s tongue when Joker leaned back, chuckling under his breath, shoulder brushing Bruce’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Mmm. You look positively indecent with all of this,” Joker drawled, flicking a bit of ash into a cracked mug on the table. “I should keep you like this. Frame you, maybe.”
Bruce didn’t answer, but he didn’t move away either. His body was still humming from the adrenaline, the kiss, the absurdity of it all. He let the silence stretch before breaking it, his voice low and gravelly.
“What have you been doing in Gotham’s underground lately?”
Joker tilted his head, eyes narrowing with mock offense. “Really, Bats? I thought you’d at least buy me dinner first.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “I know you’ve been meeting with Penguin. And I’ve heard your name whispered with Black Mask’s crew.”
The clown waved a dismissive hand, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. “Oh? Nothing serious. A joke here, a favor there. Besides,” he leaned closer, dropping his voice into something almost conspiratorial, “I’m not killing anymore innocents. Scouts’ honor.”
Bruce’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp even in exhaustion. “Not killing anyone,” he repeated.
Joker smirked, teeth flashing. “Well. You wouldn’t want me to get boring, would you?”
Bruce exhaled slowly, the weight of the answer pressing down on him. He should push harder, demand more. But instead, he asked quietly, “Why stop?”
That silenced Joker. For a moment, he stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette, thumb rubbing against the filter. His grin didn’t reach his eyes when he finally answered. “Because you hated it most. And to be honest, it was fun, but I’m getting tired when you look at me like that.” His gaze flicked up vulnerable. “I’d rather see you like this. All bruised and wrecked, letting me touch you. I’d burn the whole city down if it meant I could see you like this forever.”
Bruce’s chest tightened. He should have been horrified. His hand found its way to Joker’s neck, steadying him. “I don’t want you to change,” Bruce murmured, voice breaking around the truth. “You already knew that.”
Joker stared at him, blinking once, twice, before laughing softly. “Oh, darling. You’re going to kill me faster than any bullet.”
The cigarette burned down to its end. Joker crushed it into the mug, then slouched sideways against Bruce, head settling on his shoulder. He smelled of smoke, greasepaint, and sweat, a chaotic cocktail even after the shower, Bruce should have pushed away. But the weight of him there was grounding, soothing.
“You know,” Joker murmured, words slurring slightly with fatigue, “you’re very warm. Like a very judgmental furnace.”
Bruce smiled. “Get some sleep.”
“Mmm.” Joker’s breath tickled his collarbone. “Don’t leave when I do, promise? You said you'd stay.”
Bruce let out a low hum, not denying. His arm shifted unconsciously, until it rested along the back of the couch, half cradling the clown who had brought Gotham to its knees a hundred times. Joker’s eyes slipped closed, his grin fading into something small and almost human. His breathing evened, shoulders rising and falling against Bruce’s side.
"You know the next room is the bedroom, right? We have-" Joker's tired voice was immediately cut off by Bruce's shushing and comforting hand.
And Batman sat there in the dim light, watching the rise and fall of his chest, knowing this was wrong, dangerous, impossible. Knowing he would stay anyway.