Life is so much better when you're dead

The sound of heartbeat was the first thing Bruce registered as he woke up. His sore face pressed against a warm, rising chest, he inhaled the dust-heavy air. His mouth was dry, and his head felt pleasantly light. Joker didn't stir when he arched his neck a little, remaining sound asleep. He saw bruises, fine hair covering an arm slung loosely around his torso, a map of scars of various volume and texture. The slight throbbing of Joker's jugular vein right underneath a thin layer of flesh. His eyes moved upwards, right over the minute stubble, relaxed lips, dry skin stretched over the astoundingly perfect bone structure. He watched the freckles, the tiny wrinkles around his dark circled eyes, the net of small, blue veins. The gentle furrow of his soft eyebrows. Bruce had never seen him asleep without his make-up before, with Joker tending to get a jump on waking up and watching him sleep for God knows how many hours. He knew he must have done that the first time he spent a night in this place, looking at him and writing his little note prohibiting him from leaving the apartment. He wondered if back then Joker had felt similar warmth.

It seemed to be a nice day outside, and the sun accentuated its presence sending a few rays to play in Joker's hair spilled against the blood-stained pillow. The warmth in his chest was quite overwhelming as Bruce kept staring, but he refrained from touching. Looking was rewarding enough. Joker didn't make any noises, his breath was slow and almost inaudible as he lay perfectly still, truly a sight to be seen. The lax facial muscles that would usually contract with violent mirth, as seen on the news on TV, as seen in Bruce's nightmares--both a thing of the past. The clean hair he had combed himself, honey blond free of any green now. The fact that he was revering the sight of a sleeping monster meant nothing, as Joker was no more of a monster than he was. Joker was a natural disaster, not a killer. Bruce saw it now, and he accepted it, and he didn't even flinch at the thought; he just leaned in, nuzzling the sun-warmed hair.

They were both surviving a nightmare now. They were both emerging, pink and vulnerable, slowly molding together into something stronger. Bruce's lips settled against Joker's cheekbone, unable to keep away any longer, and he watched the furrowed eyebrows smoothen, the heavy eyelids flutter open. Joker's eyes were reddened and piercing as always, with no glaze of drowsiness one would normally expect. Bruce found some comfort in it.

"Watch me sleep, did you?" Joker purred, his voice raspy and his grin wide. "Ugh. Creepy." He cowered mockingly before he hooked his arm around Bruce's neck to pull him down and kiss him, quite roughly for just having woken up. Bruce just sunk into him and melted for a moment, happy to know there was no need to fight it anymore. He pulled away, his face glowing beneath the bruises and lacerations. Joker watched him with evident pleasure, a little flushed from the kiss himself. He scrutinized the scabs, the blots of red, purple and green, the ominously affectionate gaze he didn't fear anymore; it was a part of him now and he knew he mirrored it, because he felt it too.

"At least I didn't draw on you," Bruce said. "That's what I call creepy."

"Oh, still have that elephant?" Joker perked up and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Bruce's back. "Yeah, still there," he muttered with traces of pride in his voice. "C'mon, it's not that creepy." A wide grin and a warm hand against Bruce's cheek. "It suits you. It screams you."

"Right. Maybe I should change my entire gimmick now, what do you think?"

"Elephant-man?" Joker cackled. "It's been done already, but you'd instill fear like whoa." Bruce laughed with him. He still remembered the sight of brain matter splattered against a wall, and he was having the best morning of his life anyway. Maybe the guts inside him finally grew accustomed to the sight of their brethren wrongfully smeared on concrete, just like skin doesn't recoil at the sight of skin; he had grown blood-simple, then desensitized, then accepting of death of others as he mustered acceptance of his own death already underway deep down. Dying felt good if approached right, and Joker showed him the right way. Bruce followed beautifully; he wasn't rotting, he was drying out in the sun shedding his coarse, scaled past, and finally, he realized it without pain.

They went about their respective morning routines seamlessly. Pissing, push-ups (Joker urged Bruce to do it and counted, sitting on him and viciously telling him to put some elbow into it), showering, shaving (Bruce didn't feel like shaving), the acknowledgement of the fridge's abject emptiness, the clothes they picked from the floor, still smelling of fear and gunpowder in spite of their suspicious briskness. It was obvious they needed to leave their den and go hunting for groceries, and they didn't feel apprehensive about it. The corpse most probably waiting for them in one of the alleys seemed now like a sightseeing site they'd love to visit again. One look into Joker's reddened, hazel eyes was enough for Bruce to sustain the weird strength that allowed him to feel that way, and he had to admit, he enjoyed this. He enjoyed how his mind coped with it, how it managed to bounce off the filth-paved limbo and settle comfortably into this morning.

Joker watched Bruce kneeling on the floor and rummaging through his bag in search of something clean to wear. He liked the way his hair was growing out, curling slightly at the ends, and he liked the round, green bruises with his teeth marks in their center, the criss-cross of scratches and all the other little things he had left inside and outside. He liked the way Bruce wore them without shame, and how his eyes told him he would gladly have some more. Joker's eyes followed a dark blue t-shirt spreading over the scarred torso, and a strong hand slicking back the dark, tousled hair, and something jumped in his chest, ridiculously light and also overwhelming. He wondered if he would ever stop feeling like a teenage girl whenever he laid his eyes on Bruce, and he put on his button suspenders pensively. Then, some comforting inner voice told him teenage girls usually don't have half the ugly urges he harbored, and his mind happily treaded down the path of planning and arranging what should he do now with his precious darling.

"Say, are you in for some highly flamboyant, ritualistic cleansing on our way to the grocery store?" he asked, rooting in his closet for a canister of gasoline. Upon locating it, he grinned and presented it to Bruce who looked askance at him, cocking an eyebrow.

"What?" was the natural reply.

"Burning effigy, that's what. Are you in or not?"

"What do you want to burn?"

"Now, Bruce. What burns better than a smitten sinner?"

Something clicked in Bruce's head and his gaze brightened. "You want to go back and... cremate him?" he asked. The idea seemed gloriously pointless. The sun-lit motes of dust floating in the air obscured Joker's grinning face as he looked at him across the room. It was really warm outside, and a small breeze barged in through the open window. Bruce felt his lips stretch in a smile and he remained silent for this pregnant moment before he hanged his head and laughed. His reality was thick, lazy and potent like lava, and he could mold it anyway he wanted now. Would the sight of that bastard burning in a pile of trash please him? "Of course I'm in," he said through laughter. Joker liked the sober, relaxed sound of it. He waltzed up to Bruce and cupped his face in his hands, his memory fresh with the way he had gotten drunk with him, the way he had cried in his car, picked their bed sheets, smoked his cigarette. He kissed him, long and hard, loosing himself for a second or ten.

"Have I ever told you you're beautiful?" he hissed as he pulled away, his head slightly bowed and his eyes trained on Bruce's. Bruce wondered if he would ever stop feeling like a teenage girl whenever Joker looked at him that way, painfully aware of his glowing cheeks.

All of it was painful, in a way, but it was the good kind of pain, cleansing like fire. The affection and all the quotidian things the two of them should never share hurt more than teeth and fists, but this suffering was a process they wanted to complete for the sake of God knows what. A sick, intoxicating vocation, that's what it felt like. And they found comfort knowing there was no escape.

♣ ♣ ♣

Here lay the smitten sinner, rats swarming around his head, splinters of skull jutting out like a crown, fat, green flies buzzing and droning in agitation. Bruce stared at him, feeling the sun shine right at the back of his neck, Joker standing next to him with his hair sticking in every direction, the canister sitting between them patiently.

"We should put him in there." Joker motioned to a rusty, steel garbage box. There was not a soul in sight, even the sound of traffic couldn't reach this place. Bruce looked around, reassured in being a part of something forgotten. This place was the city he had fought for. He walked around the corpse and bent down to grab his legs while Joker took care of the arms. They lifted him and slowly plodded to the box, dropping the body inside with an oddly satisfactory thud. Bruce acknowledged the stench only peripherally, now consumed with something blistering and red slowly working its way into his veins. Joker handed him the canister.

"Do the honors," he said, his voice sultry. Bruce obliged and slowly started to bedew the sinner with the acrid liquid. He took his time and he stared. His mind was still and his thoughts pellucid, the unconsciousness taking it upon itself to spill all the jarring echoes out of his head along with gasoline. What he saw didn't matter; the folds and creases of dirty clothing, the sprawled limbs, the rigid features that meant nothing. He just poured and watched it glisten until the canister was empty, and then he watched some more. He didn’t want to blink; the shapes started to shift and the incandescent colors molded together.

"C'mere," Joker mumbled from behind him. Bruce turned around, seeing a cigarette hanging from the other man's mouth. He took a few steps away from the box, taking a seat on the concrete next to Joker.

"Weren't you supposed to cut down on it?" Bruce asked, traces of iron and mirth resounding in his voice and making Joker grin. Bruce had the devil back in his eyes and Joker had to admit, he had missed the sight.

"This one is special, and it's mainly for you," Joker chuckled and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply and holding it in. Bruce watched it--it didn't look that special, but maybe Joker had used a rolling machine to give it a neat, inconspicuous finish. No time to think now as it was being handed to him, and Bruce obediently sucked on it. He liked the taste. It was a blend of various things he struggled to recognize mixed with good tobacco. Nutmeg and wormwood extract, among other things he couldn't make out. It was special, he could tell a few minutes after he had finally exhaled, watching the other man take another hit. He knew he should be wondering about all of it--most importantly, he should be asking himself why the fuck was he doing whatever he was doing right now. The blistering lava in his veins suddenly felt good, and Joker's latex-treated face never looked so crisp, the smirk on his soft lips never looked so familiar as he passed the joint back to Bruce, the tendrils of smoke crawling out of his mouth and nose in the gloriously blinding sun.

It lasted for a while, and it spread at good tempo, allowing Bruce to take the few steps he needed to approach the steel box and throw the remains of the joint inside. He returned to Joker stepping backwards while the fire blazed up, the flames several feet high. He sat down just in time for the strength to ebb his body, warm sand taking its place. He smelled the burning meat and he laughed, and Joker laughed with him. The flames were red and orange and purple, they were everywhere, licking the inside of his skull and filling his lungs, and he just wasn't quite there to be touched, ensconced in the smoke and out of reach. The past was empty, the future was opulent, and the present was charring.

With minutes passing, Bruce slowly started to feel the effect diminishing, leaving a pleasant aftertaste. He closed his eyes, still smelling the carrion and smiling at the warmth of sun and fire. Joker took his hand and they remained like this for a while, their backs resting against the brick wall upon which the story of the previous night was limned with dried brain matter.

"You know what?" Joker cleared his throat. "It feels like this is indeed our city."

Bruce squeezed his hand. He had a vivid memory of himself standing atop of skyscrapers, playing his eyes over the endless sea of flickering lights and thinking exactly that. This is my city. Now he sat in the garbage, burning a corpse and holding a madman by the hand, and he couldn't help thinking how ridiculous he was for having thought that then and there. Here and now, he looked up at the sky, free of his haughty perch, as far away from the top as he could get, and yet he felt something burn inside of him, something he hadn't felt in years. He felt exhilarated, just the way he had when he first decided to become what he was. He locked his eyes with Joker's.

"It is ours," he said. His obligations didn't matter, the mob's favors didn't matter, his sex tape didn't matter and Sofia Falcone's ruptured spleen also didn't matter. He had something much greater than all of this in the palm of his hand.

They sat like this for a while longer, drying out enjoyably and without a hitch until their hunger sent them to their feet. They gave the smoldering offal an amused once-over before they set off.

♣ ♣ ♣

Bruce had a hood over his head along with his trusty sunglasses and stubble, and Joker had his hair in a ponytail, his shirt not too gaudy today and the sleeves of his black jacket rolled up; they looked like two regular guys shopping for fresh produce in an open-air market that just happened to be located in the James Sullivan's part of town. They both knew this was the kind of place where you're likely to hear things, especially when you're equipped to hear them. They had both agreed it was a good idea to come all the way down here before they even left the house. Now they were giving themselves a mental pat on the back. Bruce adjusted the device against his ear with a lazy move while he and Joker strolled in an equally lazy manner past a dirty truck, pretending to have their attention zeroed in on a box of rather impressive looking tomatoes. All it took was a strand of a quiet conversation caught by chance--a couple of jovial, corpulent vendors innocently discussing kidneys of all things while they leisurely waddled into the truck. Bruce knew it, Joker knew it, and most decidedly any wise businessman knew it too--stupidity was the thing that tended to bring you down in the trade, and the vendors were evidently guilty of it.

Bruce stood relatively near the truck and listened to the livid exchange, a part of him wondering if there even was such a thing as luck or coincidence, the drugged part laughing at the dumb question. Joker flashed a charming grin at the woman in charge of the impressive tomatoes, sustaining small talk as she weighed and packed them, eliciting a few giggles and blushes. Bruce snorted at the sight, but not one iota of the kidney discussion escaped his keen attention. Just when one of the stubby men left the truck with a red face, Joker finalized the transaction. They were free to go, and they sauntered back home. They had a long way ahead of them and they spoke quietly.

"Those guys almost made it sound like Falcone and the band eschew things like harvesting organs," Joker stated when Bruce finished recalling what he had heard. Their heads were still pleasantly resonating, and their minds were maybe a little too clear. The whole ordeal of getting groceries had seemed like a breeze, and the one in a million chance of getting information they had just encountered left them unimpressed, but content.

"We'll check with Nissenbaum if they do, but regardless of that they can expect some force majeure to put them out of work." Bruce bit into an apple. Joker stretched as much as the bags he was carrying allowed him to and cracked his neck. They felt at home and purified, ready to get back to business.