Life is so much better when you're dead

"It's here," Joker purred into Bruce's ear as they passed a particularly grim looking alley.

Bruce stopped the engine and looked around. The entire block consisted of really old tenements, visibly derelict and void of any signs of dwelling. Some time ago they had gained bad notoriety, being referred to as firetraps by the media since the wooden elements of their construction made them extremely susceptible to the attacks of some amateur pyromaniac, who, for the record, was never caught. The series of arsons had lasted for a couple of months until the whole area was deserted completely, and a few subsequent ghastly incidents managed to keep even the vagrants from venturing around. Considering it was the place Joker called home, it had now become clear in Bruce's head that the man standing behind all of it must have been the landlord himself, ensuring no one was fooling around on his turf.

Finally, Bruce parked the bike underneath the fire escape and got off. "Need any help?" he asked quietly. Joker stretched out his arms, trying to assess if any of his ribs were broken. He felt almost disappointed at the realization that despite everything he had gone through in the past hour, apart from a couple of bruises and a throbbing headache he was far from being incapacitated.

"You could lend me an arm, y'know."

Bruce held out his hand with a sigh, and Joker gladly took it in his own, dismounting the bike. Swaying exaggeratedly, he threw his arms around Bruce and slumped against him.

"Now you're gonna have to help me upstairs," he stated with a sly smile.

The taller man gave him a weary look. "You could walk on your own."

"Who said that I couldn't?" Joker grinned and started to pace towards a decrepit entrance door, his arm hooked around Bruce's neck as he dragged him along gently. He kicked the door open. "So, uh... wanna come in?"

Bruce lowered his gaze, the seemingly simple question puzzling him a lot more than it should. Although he had already regained his mettle, Joker still didn't give away any sign of being up to something malignant. He was just standing in the open door, looking at him with that weird glint of anticipation in his eyes.

"What for...?" Bruce asked, unable to stop his voice from faltering slightly. That tiny hint of uncertainty was all that the madman needed. He grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, starting to lead him up the creaky, wooden stairs, and Bruce couldn't find it in him to protest. He climbed the steps slowly, trying not to trip, breathing in the stale, musty air mingled with the smell of Joker's blood and sweat. The grip of the gloved fingers around his wrist tightened when they stopped in front of another decrepit door. Joker let go of him and started to frisk his own pockets, a metallic clink sounding in the dark eliciting a victorious purr out of him. After a few failed attempts, cursing the lack of proper lighting, he finally managed to insert the key into the lock and turn it.

"Do come in," he said and stepped inside. Almost tripping on various objects scattered on the floor, he made it to the desk, reached to a small lamp sitting on top of it and switched it on. Bruce closed the door behind himself and looked around. It was a simple single room apartment with a kitchen annex. At first sight, there wasn't anything extraordinary about it, at least not in a way one would expect from its tenant; no splatters of blood, no artistically arranged body parts, no barrels of decaying organic matter. It was far from being tidy, but still, it lacked that special touch of filth and macabre Joker would sport at all times. The night lamp, being the only source of light, revealed a medium sized bed located next to something that could pass for a nightstand. The bed wouldn't look suspicious in the least had it not been for make up smears all over the pillow, accompanied by stains of dried blood here and there.

Bruce's sight wandered to the right. A simple wooden chair and a big desk cluttered with newspaper cutouts, some rubbish, a few screwdrivers, and a turntable. The entire wall above it was plastered with pages of The Gotham Times, scribbled over or made into collages. Beneath the desk there were cardboard boxes filled with vinyls, magazines, filming equipment, an assorted collection of explosives and other knick-knacks.

Going further right, his eyes stopped at the kitchen annex. Again, nothing extraordinary apart from the fact that every appliance looked quite vintage, as if Joker had inherited this place from some elderly citizen. Also, the only things that weren't entirely covered in dust were the refrigerator’s handle, an espresso machine and a metal whistle kettle.

Bruce turned his head to the left. Wooden shelves filled with various trinkets, tools, books, more newspapers, balls of string, stacks of DVDs and VHS tapes. An old looking TV set sitting on a small table, topped with a VHS/DVD player. A dusty, worn out armchair and a clothing rack stuffed with outfits of bold colors and patterns. The floor was strewn with small piles of rags, glass bottles, cigarette butts and the like.

"Make yourself at home, dear. Sorry about the mess, I haven't been here in weeks." Joker smiled underneath his running makeup, taking off his gloves. "Take a seat wherever you like." He looked at the bed suggestively.

Bruce stood still for a few seconds. By now the adrenaline had completely left his blood system, and without the cold night air to keep him alert, his body slowly started to remind him of its exhausted state. Finally, he walked to the bed and sat down.

"I don't suppose I could offer you something... I mean, my supplies are running, uh, low, but still, if there's anything you can trouble me for, I'd be more than happy to, you know... cater to your needs."

Bruce looked at him, feeling a sudden surge of calmness sweep through his body. "I should be going now," he said, not making a move. Joker's bed must have been really old, the springs were almost sticking out of the mattress, and yet, he felt strangely comfortable.

"Don't tell me Alfred gave you a curfew." The madman shot him a slant look and climbed into his lap. He had noticed a long time ago that Bruce wasn't exactly the picture of health. Cheekbones much more prominent than in the old tabloid photos, dark circles around his eyes, hair hanging in messy strands, slight stubble covering his jaw--all of those details didn't escape his attention as he stroked Bruce's cheek tenderly.

"So uh, about that talk we had earlier tonight. If I recall correctly... you said you haven't slept properly in two years because of little ol' me? You poor thing."

A slight smirk was Bruce's only response. His head suddenly felt heavy. He couldn't even look up, staring at the intricate pattern of Joker's shirt through half closed eyelids. The warmth radiating from the madman was drawing him in, and slowly he started to feel his senses shut out when soft hands ghosted gently down his sides. The silence was ringing in his ears, laced only with the quiet sound of Joker's breathing as he leaned in closer, resting his greasepaint covered face in the crook of his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around him tightly.

"Wanna know what I think?" he whispered in Bruce's ear, smiling at the feel of the other man yielding to his touch. "As much as I enjoy seeing you all malleable like this... I do believe you could use some rest. So," he patted Bruce on the head and ran his fingers through the dark hair, pulling him even closer. "How about a little sleepover? Hm? I'll tend to your... condition."

Bruce closed his eyes. "I don't think there's much tending left for you to do," he muttered quietly.

"Now. Don't tell me you're gonna fall asleep on me like that."

Bruce smiled, feeling his awareness get further clouded with warmth. His body took over him completely, and he nuzzled his face into the madman's neck unknowingly.

"I guess this constitutes for a yes," Joker sighed and placed his hands on the other's shoulders, pushing him away gently. "You could at least lie down, y'know." He let go of Bruce and climbed on the bed, dragging him along. Before some tiny part of Bruce's consciousness had a chance to awake, Joker enveloped him in a tight embrace, adjusting their positions until they were both somewhat comfortable against the creaky mattress and the bloodied pillow. Bruce burrowed into him, at this point barely even realizing what he was doing. Lulled by the sound of Joker's heartbeat, he fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

Minutes were passing in complete silence and stillness, yet soon enough the madman found it impossible to give in to his own exhaustion, with the feeling of warm lips pressed to his neck and slow breath brushing against his skin. He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh, trying to will the insistent blood from running downwards. To have him so close, so defenseless, completely unarmored--it was almost unreal. He felt his fingers claw over Bruce's body on their own in an upsurge of emotions he wasn't able to define.

No, no, no, Brucey needs his beauty sleep.

Joker took another deep breath, but that tickling sensation just underneath his skin didn't want to go away. While he was trying to empty his mind and keep absolutely still, Bruce moved closer in his sleep, and Joker shut his eyes even tighter. He started to feel the familiar tingling in his stomach. After a couple of minutes of this distress, he sighed with resignation and began to count in his head. By the time he had reached five hundred, he realized his left arm had gone completely numb and prickly. Unfortunately, it was the arm he had slid under Bruce's head earlier, and trying to move it now would probably wake him up. Joker gritted his teeth. It was going to be a really long night.


♣ ♣ ♣


Bruce sat up, covered in sweat. He looked around, his sight still slightly blurry; he barely recognized the cluttered room. Joker's home, he recalled after a few seconds. Joker himself was nowhere to be found, though.

He pressed his palms to his face, trying to force the remains of his nightmare away. It wasn't long before he finally felt the inevitable grip of reality tighten over his mind. He brushed away strands of hair from his sweat slicked forehead and looked around again, this time with more caution. The late-afternoon sun barely getting through the dirty windowpanes, combined with his dazed state, made the room look almost surreal. His eyes rested on the nightstand, a piece of paper lying on top of it drawing his attention. There was something written on it. He reached for it and tried to focus on the whimsical, red letters.

Gone shopping, will be back SO DON'T GO ANYWHERE OR [a few lines crossed out and scribbled over] Just don't go anywhere. Make yourself at home [smiley face]

xoxo
J.

Bruce sighed. Somehow, he didn't feel like opposing Joker's instructions. He was much too groggy for going anywhere. He reached up to his temples, feeling the blood pump under his fingertips. It had been a long time since he slept this long; his body must have forgotten how to deal with it.

His mouth was dry, and the thick layer of sweat felt almost heavy on his skin. Finally, the thought of water in any form prevailed over anything else. He freed himself of his jacket and approached the half open door leading to the bathroom. He turned on the light. It looked... almost normal. Quite vintage, just like the kitchen. A curtained bathtub, a sink, a toilet, a mirror cabinet, lime green tiles. A towel lying on the floor. Bruce went over to the sink, checking himself in the mirror. He winced at his reflection and decided to focus on the crusty smears of greasepaint instead. Driven by curiosity, he opened the cabinet, and his eyes met an abundance of make up supplies, but not solely of the clownish palette. Some high quality makeup base and foundation, some pressed powder and a small bottle of liquid latex caught his gaze for a few seconds before it wandered to a collection of straight razors arranged neatly on the lower shelf. Some bandages and butterfly stitches, iodine, a small plastic comb, a seemingly brand new toothbrush, and an almost full tube of toothpaste completed the picture. Most of those things were stained with make up and other substances Bruce didn't dare to analyze at the moment.

He found himself staring at the toothpaste longingly; the sour taste in his mouth after so many hours of sleep was indeed quite unpleasant. Finally, he reached for it and turned the faucet on, slightly surprised with the fact that the madman had running water in there. He squeezed some of the toothpaste into his mouth, bent over the sink, and mixed it with water, creating a makeshift mouthwash. He spewed the concoction out after a few seconds and put his face under the cold stream, quenching his thirst.

After a couple of seconds, Bruce closed the faucet and looked at the bathtub uncertainly. He pulled the curtain aside, assessing the situation. Again, nothing that might be considered overly deterring; just a bottle of shampoo and some shower gel standing on the edge of the tub. He didn't really know what he had expected, but obviously, not this. Joker certainly must have been absent in this place for a while. It looked too normal.

He glanced at the lonesome towel lying on the floor and picked it up hesitantly. It was slightly damp--apparently Joker had taken a shower before he left. Bruce cringed in disbelief, but upon closer inspection, he didn't find any further irregularities about the towel and assumed it was safe to use it. He looked at the bathtub again and sighed. Finally, he made the decision and took off his clothes, got in, closed the curtain, and turned on the water. It was a good decision. He closed his eyes, letting the hot stream wash away the stiffness lingering in his muscles. The dreary realm of his dream, still present in the back of his mind, slowly began to blur until it had vanished completely.

He got out after a couple of minutes and reached for the towel. It smelled of Joker. Not of his sweat, not of his blood, nor any other excretions. It was that subtle scent Bruce could sometimes feel when he would let him close enough.

Another one of the array of unsettling things about this place.

After drying off, he put his clothes back on and left the bathroom, eyeing the rest of the apartment. The wall plastered with newspaper pages caught his eye first, and he approached it, sliding his gaze down the numerous cutouts and scraps. He stopped at a yellowed picture of Batman. It had appeared in The Gotham Times many years ago, at the very beginning of his activity when the omnipresent lenses still didn't bother him too much. Bruce squinted a little. The caption read: Does this cape make me look fat? He hanged his head and let out a silent chuckle.

He spent a good while in front of the wall, smiling occasionally before his attention switched to the turntable sitting on the desk. Bruce raised his eyebrows and knelt down on the wooden floor, reaching to the box filled with vinyls. Slightly intrigued, he started to rummage through the ample collection. A lot of classics such as The Stooges or Dr Hook, a bunch of various singles such as Screamin' Jay Hawkins' I Put a Spell on You. Bruce remembered receiving that single on last year's Valentine's Day. It had come in the mail without any note or return address, but he knew all too well who had sent it.

The sound of the door unlocking barged into his memories, and his eyes automatically wandered to the left. He froze at the sight of the man entering the apartment. Black, rumpled suit, strands of curly blond hair sticking out from under an old fashioned hat, paisley patterned shirt. Gray suede shoes, black leather gloves. Two plastic bags filled with groceries of sort. And that face...

"Well, hello there," he greeted Bruce with a big, somewhat familiar grin, and kicked the door closed, placing the bags on the floor. "Oh, I see you've been rifling through my treasures, naughty, naughty," he drawled and approached the man still kneeling in front of the desk. Finally, he sat next to him, the grin not leaving his face. "Found anything you like?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes a little, trying to apply some imaginary makeup and scars to those features. "Is this what you use the latex for?" he asked, pointing to Joker's cheeks.

"Uh, yeah." The madman removed his hat, unveiling a little ponytail. "You sneaky devil, you looked everywhere, didn't ya?"

"No, not yet. Where were you?"

"Oh. Just shopping. Missed me?" Joker ruffled Bruce's hair playfully and got to his feet, pacing to the bags he had left at the door. "I didn't buy anything substantial, but there are some, uh... sandwiches and stuff... if you want." He threw one of the bags in Bruce's direction, taking the other one to the refrigerator. Bruce could hear the clinking of glass bottles coming from the kitchen as he checked the contents of the bag. Indeed. Some Starbucks sandwiches. Uncertain at first, he finally acknowledged the fact that he hadn't eaten anything in two days, and reached for one.

"So, uh, did you sleep well?" asked Joker, still struggling with the bottled fraction of his groceries.

"You could say so," Bruce answered with his mouth full.

"Come on, you gotta show me some more enthusiasm, or else I'm gonna keep you here until you're picture perfect again."

Finally, he emerged from the kitchen. Taking off his jacket and gloves, he walked up to Bruce. The dark haired man finished his sandwich and looked up, still finding himself in awe with the painstaking work Joker must have done with covering up the scars. He couldn't take his eyes off his face even as he knelt down next to him with an amused expression.

"Yeah... you still seem to be a little out of your element, dear." Joker pinched Bruce's cheek lightly. He reached inside his pocket for cigarettes and placed one in his mouth. "Wanna bum one?" Bruce lowered his gaze and shook his head.

"Aaah, virgin lungs? But I'm sure I could fix you a drink, hm?"

"What?"

"A drink, Bruce. A drink. Just--please don't tell me you're a teetotaler or something."

"I am."

"Why?"

"I just... I prefer to be sober."

"You haven't been exactly sober in the past few months, y'know." Joker scooted a little closer. "I'm not taking no for an answer, I didn't haul all of those liquids over here for nothing," he said quietly, his tongue darting out. Bruce just looked back at him, cocking his eyebrow. It seemed so unreal, to hear this familiar voice, to see all of those little ticks without the layer of greasepaint covering it up.

"Now, now, now, stop glaring, I know I make some serious GQ material when I'm like this. So, uh..." Joker drummed his fingers against Bruce's shoulder and furrowed his eyebrows as if thinking something over profoundly. "We'll start with this..." He rose to his feet and disappeared in the kitchen again.

For a moment, Bruce wondered if he was still dreaming. If all of this was real, it meant that he had spent the last night sleeping, cradled in the arms of the Gotham's most wanted felon, that he was at the moment sitting in his apartment being subject to his hospitality, and that he was about to be forced to have a drink with him--all of this while not a single part of his mind alarmed him that something was indeed not right. He blamed it all on his grogginess, but deep down the prospect of getting out of this place just like he was supposed to and going back to his stark clean penthouse filled him with dread. Somehow, he really didn't want to leave, almost enjoying the slight surreality of this situation. His still dazed senses only added to the effect, persuading him to give in and shut out the remains of his reason.

He seated himself more comfortably and rested his back against the side of the bed while Joker kept making a racket in the kitchen, the clinking of glass and his annoyed grunts coming out of it every few seconds. Finally, he appeared with a bottle of some expensive looking whisky and two glasses, and sashayed back to Bruce, the cigarette hanging from his mouth.

"On the rocks?" he asked and sat down.

"I'm not drinking, Joker," Bruce droned, but his voice didn't sound as self-assured as he had intended.

"Not on the rocks." The madman poured each of them a fair measure and reached up to the desk, pawing about its surface blindly until his hand rested upon a chipped, ceramic ashtray. He grabbed it and placed it on the floor in front of himself. "Yeah, I, uh, I know it's early, but..." He took Bruce's hand in his own and wrapped the man's fingers around the glass, his other hand tapping his wrist gently. "Here... Uh, I mean, don't you feel you could use a day off? See, if you just mope around all day, only to go out at night and get frustrated, then this is what happens." Joker made a wavy gesture with his hand, pointing at Bruce. "You should go out with friends more often, dear." He took a drag off his cigarette and grinned. The taller man remained silent, looking at him almost amusedly.

"Yeah, uh, I know... I know you would just love to make a frowny face and say that you don't have any friends, but you do, darling. You do." He patted Bruce's knee. "Just... c'mon, drink it up."

Bruce kept staring at him; he still couldn't get over the lack of make up and scars on his face. He suddenly realized that it was the best he had felt in months, even though his mind was still immersed in that peculiar dream-like state. It felt as if he was someone completely different, and a total stranger he had known all his life kept his company in a place whose contours slowly had begun to blur with the sun setting. He smirked. Joker wanted to drink with him. He almost hoped his drink was spiked with poison so he would be spared of his conscience nagging at him later, because he had already made the decision. Bruce raised the glass to his lips and took an ample sip.

Pleasant warmth started to spread over his body as soon as he had swallowed. He looked up at the madman, only to see a wide grin slide onto his face and his hazel eyes glint with approval.

"That's what I'm talking about," Joker said and chuckled softly. Bruce squinted, not sure if he really heard genuine joy in his voice or if he was just imagining things. He tilted his glass, almost emptying it and feeling the alcohol start to work its magic. The madman downed his own drink in one take, and his face scrunched in a sour grimace. Finally, he managed to open his eyes. "Come on, come on... bottoms up," he murmured. His fingers brushed against the back of the taller man's hand coaxingly while he poured himself another round.

"You seem pretty committed," Bruce said quietly.

"I'm fighting for a noble cause." Joker clinked his glass against Bruce's and watched him take another big sip. "It's not your first time, is it? You're drinking like a champion, dear."

Bruce felt the corners of his lips curl up a little, but he managed to prevent the smile in the nick of time. "I used to drink moonshine with the Bhutanese quite often before I went to prison." He looked up to gauge Joker's reaction, and this time he had to bite the insides of his cheeks, trying not laugh. He shot the bottle standing next to him a glance. 60%.

"What?" Joker tilted his head incredulously.

Bruce bit down harder. "Shall I reiterate?" he muttered.

"No... no, just... have some more, and..." Joker gave him a generous refill. "And, uh, keep talking, keep talking."

"That's not the thing to talk about, really."

"Oh? Did you, like, drop the soap in there or something?"

"They didn't exactly have soap in there..."

"No soap? So they took you au naturel, the filthy degenerates?"

"Well, they tried." Bruce sighed, fighting very desperately to remain deadpan. He took one more sip, watching the inside of his glass while Joker dissolved into laughter, and he thought that he must have been pretty much under influence already since he couldn't hear the trademark tinge of mockery in the madman's cackling. Or maybe he really was dreaming. It didn't matter anymore. Joker placed another cigarette in his mouth and lit it, still shaking and giggling.

"Oh, darling. Do tell, how did you deal with such inane courting?"

Bruce leaned his head back a little. He couldn't fight off the slight smirk anymore. "One day I was a little under the weather, and they jumped me... and to compensate for my earlier frigidness, they tried to force me to perform fellatio on each of them."

"Like... like in Shawshank Redemptions?"

"Quite. Except, I did bite off a piece when they shoved it in my mouth." Bruce's gaze followed the lazy tendrils of smoke. "Then, I explained... I mean, I beat them up and explained they shouldn't come on to me anymore." Joker hid his face in his hands, laughing, the cigarette sticking out from between his fingers. "As soon as they could walk again, they tried to get back at me..." Bruce was wondering why he was telling him all of this. "But after I'd explained myself one more time, the guards put me in isolation. That was it." He closed his eyes, inhaling the acrid fumes. Surprisingly enough, it was a quite nice memory. The last episode of his pleasant nonexistence, when he could afford being undriven and indecisive, simply trying to get through another day. Then, he was shown the path. Given the drive. Forced to decide. Kicked back into existence. He sighed, and his eyelids lifted, just in time for another refill. Joker was still giggling softly.

"How did he..." He bent in half with a new wave of laughter, supporting his head against Bruce's knee. "...How did he look, the guy? When you took off with his goods?"

"I don't know, I wasn't looking him in the eyes. I give bad blow jobs."

Joker hyperventilated for a few more seconds before he managed to pull himself together just enough so he could stand up and advance to the bathroom. He left the door half open, and Bruce watched him unzip his pants and relieve himself, the sight redolent of something. Finally, he remembered and indulged himself to a soundless chuckle. Joker must have thought of the same thing since his laughter exploded with doubled force as he was shaking off the last droplets. He emerged from the bathroom, clawing at walls for purchase, turned on the night lamp since it had gotten quite dark already, and kneeled in front of the desk with a thud.

"I just had a flashback, dear--oh, I missed those." He murmured as he was going through his vinyl collection. "Remember? It was a dark and stormy night, and everything, and... one of our first encounters. I just couldn't... heheh. I mean, what happened? Too much coffee before you set out?"

Bruce clenched his eyes shut, this time the threat of bursting out laughing really grave. If he hadn't recalled the exact same vignette, he would have serious trouble following Joker's prattling, but he knew all to well what he was referring to. The madman placed some Stooges' record on the turntable and switched it on, shortly reclaiming his place next to him.

"I'm walking about the city, minding my own business, and what do I see all of a sudden?" He finished his drink and lay on the floor, using Bruce's thigh as a cushion. "You don't mind, do you--I mean, when I saw you then in your full regalia, pissing against a wall..." Another violent attack of laughing. "What were you thinking?"

"What were you thinking?" Bruce took another sip and looked inside the glass. It was empty again. "I wasn't thinking of anything in particular until you appeared with your dick in your hand and started pissing next to me."

"Heheheh, yeah, you seemed pretty startled, darling. What did I say to you then.?"

Bruce sighed. The pleasant buzzing in his head started to be too pleasant for his own good. "I think you expressed your interest in me being circumcised."

Joker adjusted himself a little, looking up at him with a smile. "Oh, you." He reached back and fumbled blindly, trying to find Bruce's hand. Finally, he got a hold of it and took the empty glass in his own. He refilled it, still lying down, and passed it back to him. "And you were too dumbstruck to do anything, huh?"

"Actually, you waved a detonator in my face as soon as I tried."

"Oh, yeah... and then, I just zipped up my pants and disappeared into the night, didn't I... Kinda anti-climatic, now that I think about it."

Minutes were passing, and Joker just kept running his mouth, bringing up equally amusing occurrences. Bruce caught himself listening. Just that, listening--not analyzing, not trying to dissect each sentence and unravel the madman's grand agenda. The music mingled with the words, and he just leaned back more comfortably, Joker's head still rested in his lap as he reminisced. He didn't mind. By now, he was almost completely sure he was dreaming--or maybe it was that everything else up to this point had been only a dream. He looked down as Joker moved, starting to pick at the latex covering his cheeks.

"It gets itchy after a while," he mumbled, peeling it off slowly and wincing a little at the stinging sensation. Finally, his scars were unveiled. Bruce squinted. Maybe he wasn't dreaming, after all. It was the Joker he had gotten drunk with, it was him who was using his thigh as a pillow while twittering about their past. Bruce thought about it thoroughly, spelling it out to himself, but somehow, he still didn't mind. He looked at his glass. Empty again.

"...Hey, you remember what I was singing when you caught me feeding his liver to the cats?"

"Circle of Life... From Lion King." Why did he remember such things?

Joker was still laughing while the music was getting more and more tangible. For a second, Bruce had a feeling that he had forgotten about something quite important, but the momentary lapse was quickly swayed away with another surge of the madman's jabbering, and he found himself going with its flow without remorse. His eyes fixed on his own hand.

He had been playing with Joker's suspender strap, snapping at it gently, and it wasn't until now that he realized it. Joker either didn't care or didn't notice. His eyes wandered to the man's face, and oddly enough, he felt a weird urge to reach out and touch his scars. No, it wasn't an urge, he was actually doing it. Joker went silent and looked up as soft fingertips ran down his cheek, the gesture more curious than sensual.

"Are those hard to shave?" Bruce asked, removing a stubborn piece of latex from one of the dimples. Yes, there he was; that was the man he had been brutally sodomizing for the past two years, but there wasn't a mention of those dark episodes in the man's reminiscing. There was some foreign tenderness in his eyes, instead.

"Not if you're as virtuosic with a razor as me," Joker purred. Soon enough, Bruce's fingers resumed their interest in his suspender. "So, are you keeping up...?" The madman righted himself and took a seating position, investigating the inside of Bruce's glass. He grabbed the bottle and started to pour another round, his arm hooking around the other's neck in a comradely gesture.

"I've had enough, I think," Bruce muttered, the image dancing and blurring in front of his eyes. Suddenly, it got very warm, and he started to feel some weird, but pleasant tingling underneath his skin as Joker leaned close against him. A hand rested on the one holding the glass, raising it to his mouth, patting its back, and he budged, imbibing the contents. A wet kiss followed on his cheek, and he went rigid. His heartbeat fastened, oddly enough.

"That's my boy," the madman cooed, his chin propped on Bruce's shoulder. He was laughing quietly, still without those sneering undertones. The fingers didn't let go of his wrist. Bruce sighed, fighting the sudden urge to turn his head in Joker's direction. "C'mere, let me look at you." Joker took care of it for him. "Oh, you're doing so well, dear. It's... it's just heartrending, y'know? I know what you're thinking. That you're just dreaming, hm?" And suddenly, it occurred to Bruce he didn't mind Joker staring into his eyes at such proximity. He didn't mind any of this, really. "I wish I could just keep you here. Put you back together..." Something awoke at the base of his spine with soft, scarred lips resting on his own, but they retreated too quickly. "I will put you back together. I'm just that kind of guy, I take care of my... belongings. I sew back missing buttons and everything."

Bruce could hear his own voice in the distance. "But they don't always fit."

"Oh, you noticed?" The madman giggled. The lips returned, spreading warmth all over his body. He closed his eyes, allowing the moist tongue to coax his own lips apart and slide inside his mouth, moving languidly. "So, you're staying... right?" Bruce didn't bother with answering. Something inside of him started to melt. "You are, you are..." The tongue wandered to his neck, licking the skin in lazy strokes while the hands sneaked beneath his shirt, meandering over his body. The hot breath and the gentle touch made him shiver, and he wasn't sure if he really let out a silent moan, but he knew he wasn't about to go anywhere; he was staying.