(S)laughter is the Best Medicine

Bruce dreaded undergoing the scrutiny of a routine physical.


It meant having to account for the perpetual bruising that decorated his skin. Explain the effects of blows which had sunk through and pierced his armour - a severe downside to the sleekness and flexibility of his newly acquired Bat-suit. Not to mention the accumulation of battle scars - jagged lines up and down his arms, sword-like arcs crisscrossing his back, the mottled bumps from amateur stitching jobs he’d performed on himself. They were embroidered everywhere. And the various nicks and cuts he earned each night were always in the infectious process of healing, some deep gashes never managing to heal themselves entirely before being ripped open, bandages and all.


He sometimes dreamed of casting away the costume, banishing it forever and allowing only the polluted nights sky to cloak him. Of letting the abrasion build up and the wind whip until a protective callous grew, enveloping his whole body.


See how long he could last without the mask.


Perhaps if he were destined to preside as Gotham's saviour, he would develop a true superhuman power, not just the superficial casing of one. To Bruce, the suit was only a second skin, delicate as a cocoon and just as easily crushed within merciless fingertips. Or flying shrapnel. Beneath the shell, his body was a canvas of disfigured art - sickly shades of purple, red and gray covered most contours and plains, yet there was some relief in the patches of white base, still smooth and yet to be painted by violence.


Warding off probing questions required elaborate creativity. And if anyone was close to discovering the true identity of The Caped Crusader it was his physician. Last year Bruce had neglected to take the annual trip altogether, acting like a teenager playing truant. But this time he promised Alfred he would go to the check up. After all it was confidential and if something malicious was lurking beneath the surface, ready to strike him down and keep him bed-ridden for months, unable to assist Gotham in dire need, then Bruce wanted forewarning.


Damage assessment was essential and he couldn't do it all himself, however much his vanity pained him to admit it. As Alfred had gravely quipped when handing him the doctor's letter, 'Better to be safe then sorry.'


-


'Mr Wayne? Dr Paxton will see you now.'


Setting the telephone back in its cradle, the receptionist flashed him a professional smile.


'Thanks.' Bruce muttered, smiling grimly in return.


He rose reluctantly, knowing it was too late to make the excuses he'd been plotting for a swift getaway. Besides, Alfred would only scold him for his cowardice and send him marching straight back. So leaving the waiting room, he proceeded along the corridor in search of the ominous placard that bore his doctor's name. One thought consoled him as he drew up outside the door and rapped twice sharply - at least this wasn't the dentists. When there came no immediate answer, he bent his ear forward to listen.


There was a sound of hurried movement inside. Clacking footsteps. Squeaks and scraping of metal across linoleum flooring - like a loaded trolley being dragged. Rustling and the clink of medical instruments being handled. Then, a strange muffled groan. Tentatively, Bruce knocked again. To his surprise it was a woman, her voice somewhat breathless and strained, who eventually replied and ordered him to enter. He doubled checked the placard above his head - he had the correct room. Supposing it must be an assistant, a nurse perhaps, Bruce made his way in.


The first thing that stuck him were the papers strewn across the floor beneath his feet, curling and swaying from the wind breezing in. The window above Dr Paxton's desk was flung fully open; below it the desktop itself was a mess of toppled stationary, charts and more important-looking documents.


Bruce froze, his suspicion's instinctively raised. Something didn't feel quite right. Furniture was askew, objects scattered, appearing to him like signs of a struggle.


The computer monitor and keyboard were leaning unsafely on the brink of the desk, mouse dangling off its edge. As if they had been swept or kicked across to create room in haste, Bruce thought. The leather chair normally occupied by his doctor was missing; a couple of cabinet drawers were open and looked rummaged through. A pair of hospital aqua curtains were drawn, splitting the room into two sections, and obscuring Bruce's view of the other side.


Suddenly the curtain twitched, and the female voice spoke again.


'Get comfy, Mr. Wayne. Undress. The doc has been delayed, but I'll be ready for you any second now.'


That voice, Bruce decided, sounded odd as well - the timbre too high and taut as though the person concealed by the aqua ripples were fighting hard to suppress a giggle. That strange, mischievous quality, coupled with the state of the room, certainly didn’t help to quell his unease.


'You're doing my examination?' Bruce asked warily. He wished this woman would show her face already.


'A women's touch is more delicate, don'cha think? Now, when you're au naturel pop yourself on that table over there, yes, and don't sound so nervous. I won't peek.'


Bruce moved toward the long patient table, unsure if the decision to turn his back was too naïve, if he was letting himself be led into a trap. Becoming an easy target long enough for the enemy to swoop down on him. Or, conversely, if that type of thinking was an early sign of his paranoia breeding. Was he seeing crime perpetrated even in innocent settings where it didn't exist? His alter-ego haunting him during daylight hours - always watching, always suspicious…


He undid his cufflinks, wrangling with his confusion, and then reached up to unravel his tie, bit by bit, with deliberate slowness. Waiting.


‘So,’ he said, assuming what he hoped was a casual, unsuspecting tone. ‘What’s up with the mess? Is Dr Paxton moving office in the middle of the day?’


‘Ooh yes, been dying to leave, you might say,’ There was a loud clatter, followed by the noise of a cupboard closing with a snap. ‘Ah ha! Found it.’


‘What?’ Bruce threw his tie onto the table in front of him where it slithered off like a snake to the floor. He progressed down to undo his buttons. Nothing was happening, he hadn’t been attacked yet. A feeling of relief swept through him, his skin cooling now all the tension was dispersing in his muscles due to anti-climax. Maybe it had been just his imagination running wild.


‘My stethoooscope,’ replied the nurse, and Bruce noticed her voice seemed to have dropped a note lower. Her stringing-out of certain words, the flick of emphasis on others also felt a little unusual, the speech pattern erratic. Speculating that she might be foreign, Bruce attempted to place the accent, but it evaded him.


‘Such useful little tool. Did you know, Mr. Wayne, the average human heartbeat is a hundred beats per minute?!’ she exclaimed, reaching near hysteria in a sudden burst of excitement.


Bruce chuckled under his breath, fingers now tackling the last of his shirt buttons. This person was obviously quite a character. Enthusiastic extrovert, but otherwise harmless, he found himself concluding. ‘Really? How interesting.’ he commented mildly.


‘But that’s nothing. Nothing! Compared-’ There was a muffled squawk of laughter, followed by rapid footsteps. Bruce was busily folding his shed shirt on the foot of the table. ‘Compared to a bat!’ the nurse spluttered gleefully.


Dread plummeted to the pit of Bruce’s stomach making him instantly nauseous.


‘Bats, their little tickers go nine hundred beats a minute - how craaazy is that?’ Horrible peals of laughter suddenly erupted, racketing off the walls. Its familiar menace encircled him.


Bruce swivelled, fists raised, but his attacker was already halfway. As they lunged, he caught a flash of white uniform and lurid mouth grinning before the pain hit. A brawny arm – most definitely male - yanked his neck back while a hefty kick was delivered to his lower back, forcing him into two different agonizing directions. Bruce bit his lip, cutting short the cry that had started to spill forth. He groaned as the clown let rip, battering his calves and ankles with a pointed shoe a dozen times for good measure, all the while shrieking in delight.


When it ended – abruptly as it began - Bruce fell back limp against the Joker’s starch dress.


The Joker hitched him up like a rag doll, keeping his forearm trapped under Bruce’s chin. ‘Mmm, well that was easier then I predicted.’


Bruce’s throat throbbed as he gasped in restricted gulps of air, hands flailing at his sides as he sought to recover power in his lower body. It wasn’t life threatening, meant only as a temporary crippling, the disorientation acting as a smoke screen to keep him from fighting back and defending himself.


Worst things were in store in this game with no rules.


‘Frighteningly easy. Tut, tut, tut! If I didn’t know better I’d say you were losing your touch.’ The Joker’s breath ghosted across his ear, smelling like burnt, caramelized sugar and decay.


At such close proximity the jeering voice felt like it was perforating his eardrum and hacking its way into the recesses of his mind, his sanity. He lolled his head away, wishing he could swat the clown like a fly. Through the haze of retreating dizziness his frustrated anger began to swell, but he did not bow to it. And likewise would not bow to the Joker’s taunts, already tearing at the bounds of his self-control.


‘What do you… want?’ Bruce wheezed, pushing upwards to try and alleviate the crush the Joker had against his trachea.


‘I want Batman to come out and plaaay,’ leered the Joker, and Bruce felt the man’s glassy nails scrap lightly over his stomach, the abs there solid with tension. The rest of his skin flared into goose bumps at the contact, a reminder that he was completely vulnerable now, without a scrap of metal to protect him.


‘Is Mr. Big-Shot Bruce Wayne keeping him locked indoors, given him a cur-few, I thought when you stopped showing. Or is it that siiimpering Butler of his, out to ruin my fun? No-no-no, can’t have that. So I’ve come to remind you of the good ol’ days. Rough things up some.’


The Joker gave Bruce a hearty slap on the stomach, then purred, ‘Tell me, Brucey-bat, don’t you miss our merry go-rounds? Our nightly tête-à-tête? Oh, I count the days till we’re thrown in Arkham together, sprawled across the soft white padding of our marital cell -- oof!’


A sharp blow to the Joker’s ribcage with his elbow helped to briefly silence the jabbering. Loosened now from the vice grip, Bruce took the chance to haul the hooked arm free from around his neck and bend it backwards, twisting just so that the Joker would feel the burn as his arm was contorted in its socket. The knowledge that he could exert enough power to shred tendons, perhaps pop it completely out if he wanted felt delicious to Bruce, but he resisted the urge.


‘Ooo, ah eeee!’ The Joker squealed. ‘Maybe Bruce Wayne isn’t the pussy everybody says he is; I like the fight in ya!’


‘Shut up clown.’ Bruce spat, yanking up the man who was still doubled over, clutching half a rib and spitting giggles at the floor. Maddened by the sick, triumphant smile he saw plastered across the Joker’s face as he was flung upwards, Bruce seized his shoulder and began pummelling his abdomen repeatedly. The Joker howled, but it wasn’t entirely from pain.


‘Oooh yes!’


The mindless laughter came out in choked fits and bursts, broken up by Bruce’s continuous punches like shards of ice being hammered away, splitting and flying.


‘This is what I’ve been miss –’


Bruce punched again.


‘-ing! The Batman’s wrath! ‘It’s alive!’ The Joker boomed, waving his hands in a crazed jittery motion, reminiscent of Dr. Frankenstein. ‘ah ha ha ha ah ha –‘


Another punch, this time harder.


Laughter thickened to bloody gurgle. ‘It’s true! I can see it in you, where they can’t see it – I can. He’s you, I can feel i-t –’


Wham.


The Joker fell to his knees and stared demonically up at Bruce from under a mop of matted, grungy hair. Their eyes met, and Bruce lost some of his momentum, his fist blows weakening. The Joker’s lips smacked together, his eyes intent on Bruce. ‘You are him.’


‘I’m not. He’s.’ Bruce wavered. Memory of the blackmail videotape, the copycat Batman’s words, filtered into his mind. ‘He’s a symbol, I can act for him. We all can, Gotham’s not afraid of scum like you. You’re nobody, just - a fucking madman.’


The Joker stuck his bottom lip out, brow creasing into a frown. He sniffed. ‘That cuts deep, Bruce, it really does.’ Then he promptly fell backwards, writhing and rolling on the floor. Incessant giggles bubbled up out of his throat as he kicked about wildly. Insanity wasn’t a strong enough word for it, Bruce thought, averting his eyes in disgust when the Joker’s skirt rode up.


Bruce glanced at the door. Alerting the staff of its gatecrasher patient wasn’t an option – not yet. The Joker had to be restrained first, preferably drugged and pacified. But Bruce knew he couldn’t divert his attention away long enough to go searching for make-shift handcuffs or a weapon, it was too risky. He’d already made one mistake in dropping his guard, and although the clown seemed to be amusing himself at that precise moment - deaf and blind to Bruce’s presence and vacillation - chaos was unpredictable. Taking a deep breath, he advanced a few steps toward the Joker. Hand-to-hand combat. This would be a struggle, but a necessary precaution. Safer to have the villain flat out cold.


The Joker stilled when he finally noticed Bruce towering over him, lips a thin, unreadable line and his fists clenched, trembling ever so slightly. Laid out and reclining lazily on his forearms, the Joker regarded Bruce curiously, his lips pulled into a gruesome pout. As always the Joker’s face paint made a bizarre parody of emotions.


‘Y’know, I just can’t decide what I miss the most,’ he drawled, cocking his head to the side. ‘The mask? No, no. Now I know what’s underneath it’s not such a loss. Perhaps the beefy armour… very deceptive illusion. Hmm yess… your physique is not quite as ro-bust without it, I must say. But still…’


Green eyes roamed over Bruce’s half-naked body, giving him the once over treatment. Purposefully seductive but still only a ruse to get his blood boiling, rile him up. Sex wasn’t what the Joker thrived on, but Bruce was still grateful that he hadn’t gotten around to removing his pants.


He remained silent, mentally chiding himself for simply standing there; wasting time listening to the musings of Arkham Asylum’s Finest.


‘…and so bruised,’ The Joker nodded in faux-sympathy. ‘You deli-cate little flower, you.’


Irritated, Bruce took another step forward, placing his foot between upturned V the Joker’s spread legs had created. A violent waggle of the Joker’s finger made him pause. ‘The cape! It’s the cape I miss most of all. Heh, must have a cape fetissh.’ He smiled deviously, eyes darting upwards to relish in Bruce’s cringe at the sexual allusion.


‘Did’ya like to fuck that chick with your mask on? Whatsername… Rachel? Oh yes, Rachel! She seemed like a kin-key bi--’


His fist flew out. What he hadn’t predicted was the tip of a blade to fly out too - a haphazard blur of movement too fast for his vision to comprehend - and pierce his forearm as his fist connected squarely with the Joker’s jaw.


Their cries of pain collided in the echoing space; Bruce’s explosive and coarse, the Joker’s coloured with laughter. Bruce staggered back, clasping his arm. While he was in the midst of stifling the blood flow, the Joker shot to his feet and disappeared behind the partially drawn curtain. He returned within an instant, drapes of long bandages streaming from his hand, the other still wielding the compact knife.


‘Allow me.’


‘Don’t touch me!’ Bruce snarled, jerking away. The cut wasn’t as deep as he’d first feared, but the knife had carved a rather long line. The blood was leaking through the gaps of his fingertips and bleeding freely where his hand couldn’t reach to apply pressure. It needed staunching.


‘Oh, but I’m a professional, sir!’ the Joker protested in mock-offence.


Bruce growled. Seeing his defiance, the Joker’s eyes narrowed dangerously.


‘Let me or I’ll stand here and watch you bleed those bones dry,’ He let out a singular, bark-like laugh, this time void of amusement. ‘Then, I’ll blow this place down to the ground,’


Inching closer, he tipped the knife in vague direction of the door. ‘See that sickly public out there? Contaminating the halls with their cleanliness and order?’ The Joker shuddered dramatically. ‘One blink and they’ll be toast.'


‘Why should I believe you?’


Bruce drew breath through clenched teeth, forcing himself to focus and separate from the pain of his own injury. This didn’t just concern his fate now - the Joker had threatened the lives of others. The desire to simply rage, dole out a personal form of punishment to the Joker and fight him irrespective of the consequences had to be ignored. Preserving dignity wasn’t important and neither was the fact that, right now, he felt like barely a shadow of the Batman.


Stuffing the bandages away into a white breast pocket, the Joker reached down into another and whipped out a small square remote. ‘How’s this little contraption thrill ya?’ he said, waggling the detonator. His eyes gleamed as he watched the fear flash across Bruce’s face before the cold human mask hid it.


‘Naturally, I rigged it so we’d have time to escape out yonder win-doow, but like I said, the rest…’ he issued a sizzling hiss, baring yellow teeth. ‘Smokin.’’


The Joker’s features slackened as though exhausted from over-use, into a bored, waiting expression. Numbness crept into Bruce, his initial panic turning stale. This was his call. Play the game or lose at the flick of a switch. And with his arm bleeding as profusely as ever, this was the worst time to reach a deadlock.


‘Ticktockticktock,’ The Joker tossed the detonator playfully into the air, sending Bruce’s heart jumping to his throat, only to catch it effortlessly again in the same hand. He smiled wryly at Bruce and began to rock back and forth on his heels. ‘Ticktocktick-’


‘Enough!’ said Bruce heatedly, wincing at the raging sting of his open wound. ‘Do your worst, just don’t harm anyone else. This is between you and me.’


Pocketing the detonator, the Joker skipped merrily towards him, bridging their short gap. ‘Sounds like an invitation!’


He unravelled the bandage with a flourish, letting it dangle onto Bruce’s cut and soak up the crimson liquid escaping in rivulets.
‘Hold still, there’s a good bat,’ The Joker swished the blade in an lethal arch, inches from Bruce’s face - a warning gesture. ‘This won’t hurt a bit.’


Bruce only blinked, jaw tightening as he repressed the compulsion to flinch, burying any flicker of emotion that would suggest he was intimidated. His face became as rigid as the shell of his suit as he watched the Joker’s grotesque laughter lines stretch upwards.


‘I’m not going anywhere until I know the people out there are safe.’


Huffing out a shrewd laugh, the Joker replied, ‘Why change the habit of a life-time, eh, Batsy?’ then dropped his gaze and knife from Bruce’s face, to set on the speedy task of wrapping the dressing around his arm, each layer covering the last in quick succession.


His diversion had opened up a weak spot, one that Bruce ordinarily wouldn’t hesitate to use to his advantage. Batter the Joker over the head and leisurely swipe the knife from his grip, discard it, and pin both wrists brutally behind his back.


Easy.


That is, if he weren’t completely bare - his bruised-black and reddened skin a veritable dartboard for the Joker‘s idle recreation. It was tempting to lash out, but he would be no use to Gotham citizens if the risk ran foul. So, he breathed shallow and willed himself to remain static for the present. One sudden move could set chaos loose and cause an accidental bull’s-eye.


The Joker hummed a show tune and clicked his heels while he worked, shooting Bruce provocative glances now and then.


‘Wait, what are you doing?’ demanded Bruce, panicked-fury flaring when he realised the Joker had finished bandaging his injured arm and had started to bind them both together. He jolted backwards, suffering a momentary lapse in self-possession. The regret was instantaneous as the Joker‘s weapon sprung to his throat, nicking the surface of his flesh.


‘Ah ah, wouldn’t want to have to patch up that handsome face of yours too, my sewing skills are dire. Unless.’


Thoughtfully, the Joker’s eyes rolled skyward and a rebellious tongue flicked out, glossing his lips.


‘You want them. Scars I mean.’ His eyes skittered back down to Bruce, widening manically. ‘Hey, we could have matching ones!’


He rammed the knife in Bruce’s mouth and caught its corner, producing droplet of blood. Bruce winced and swallowed, shuddering at the unpleasant tang oozing into his saliva.


‘Whaddeya say, hmm?’


The Joker bent the blade and carved a little into the crevice, his own lips parting absently as he admired all the stilted emotions Bruce had so far fought to flatten, finally fighting their way out uninhibited. He watched, savouring the expression Bruce wore as he groaned inwardly, the way his eyebrows knitted intensely together; the subtle quiver of his lower lip.


‘I know, I know,’ The Joker whispered, voice laboured with inflated lust. ‘The tiniest cuts give the most exquisite pain. But, pain is good, pain makes you feel alive. Can you taste It, the coppery heat of it?’


Blood fled to Bruce‘s jaw in a long, thin trickle. Feeling it, he shut his eyes, needing to block out that face if only for a few seconds and compartmentalize the pain. Coupled with his tormenter’s broad grin and baiting commentary, this treatment felt almost worse then being stabbed. Incidentally, his arm was now deadening from the bandages thick pressure and his hands were bound, useless as dummies.


Bruce had a dim memory of the Joker having tied them single-handedly somewhere during the invasion of his mouth and ensuing sadistic patter. (Admittedly, the clown was more gifted at crafty multi-tasking the he’d chanced upon, but he doubted issuing another rueful complaint with a knife stuck between his teeth would’ve helped matters anyway.)


He re-opened his eyes into slits, to find the Joker looming towards him larger-then-life, warped like the reflections that haunt a fairground Hall of Mirrors. Bruce saw perspiration had started to flake and eat away at the garish paint, revealing the mangled cheek scars beneath its surface. Suddenly he wished to wash it all away, make certain the creature hidden beneath was actually human.


The Joker’s tongue made a slight protrusion from his slack mouth, resting there over chapped lips as he studied Bruce. Their noses were barely a hairs breadth apart and any closer Bruce predicted he would go cross-eyed. Of course the Joker held zero sense or regard for the personal boundaries of anyone, but this closeness felt unusual from their regular confrontations. Like standing in the eye of the storm, time had slowed down, become dense and eerie.


‘Never tasted bat-blood before, let’s see…’ The Joker hissed eventually, ogling the trail of Bruce’s blood with fiendish hunger. Bruce’s eyes widened as the clown cracked one last smirk, removed the blade to lean in, and… oh no.


A surprisingly soft thumb striking his cheekbone was the first contact to surrender his eyes closed on natural impulse. The next was wet, hard collision with the Joker’s lips, teeth impacting against his own in a frenzy. The heat was searing, instantly intoxicating like a blast of fear toxin. Except this wasn’t fright-inducing, it was disgusting, despicable - the Joker’s touch felt like that of a leper to him.


Ugly smacking sounds filled his ears as the clown lapped up the drips of blood and sucked on the minor cut at the side of his mouth, as though it were the essence of life itself, meanwhile smearing him with chalky greasepaint and ruddy blotches. The synthetic burned as it entered Bruce‘s veins, tainting his blood-steam.


He squirmed hard but ineffectually against the assailing kiss. Heat flamed his cheeks, his dignity having been stripped off and already reduced to a thousand tatters. Lifting his tangled arms was hopeless too; only succeeding in bestowing weak thumps and scraps to the Joker’s chest. Nails pinched his skin when the Joker clamped his jaw roughly, wrenching him so oppressively close their noses clashed and the Joker’s tongue was wedged between their mouths like prey trapped within a hot web of saliva and blood.


During the futile struggle, the Joker’s knife-balancing hand came up to grip his crown and a pair of lethal eye-teeth scoured his bottom lip, giving rise to more blood-letting and more depraved sucking. Bruce nearly swooned, the choking kiss sickening him and the restricted air making him feel faint, dizzy. His eyelids fluttered, but he glimpsed only a vibrant blur and snapped them closed again.


As desperation mounted, Bruce writhed violently in a last ditch attempt to ward the Joker off, opening his mouth to protest loudly and hopefully deafen his foe in the course. But as he did so, a tongue slithered past his lips, too quick for him to quash its entry and his roar was muffled by the Joker’s zealous moans.


‘Hmm,’ the Joker eased away with a reverberating purr against Bruce’s lips, leaving him panting for air. ‘Not bad, but I sense a slight… resistance?’


‘You don’t say.’ rasped Bruce coldly. The taste of his enemy was still rolling around on his tongue.


‘We’ll soon cure that,’ the Joker replied ominously, stroking the spine of his knife with a slender forefinger. Then, brusquely, he directed it at Bruce‘s heart which, as if on cue, sped up a further notch. ‘Get on the table. And I thought I told you to stri-p?’


What else could inflame this nightmare, Bruce dared to wonder, stepping cautiously back till he bumped against the paper-thin covering of the patients couch. It was still too high to ascent without the help of his arms. Noticing this ineptitude, the Joker sighed dramatically and moved forward to hoist him up. Bruce’s skin crawled.


‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, not expecting a truthful answer, but an allusion to something or a wisecracked clue at least.


‘Why, what the doctor ordered of course! Don’t you remember what you came here for, Brucey?’ The Joker coaxed him into a lying position by a hand on his shoulder, and Bruce submitted with no complaint this time, mindful of the ever-present weapon drooping just below his neck.


’We’ve already got a little physical but,’ The knife dipped swiftly to the waistband of Bruce’s pants. ’I really think I need to examine you properly, make sure everything’s in ship-shape.’


His leather belt was gone in a fluid flash, and the Joker began to prise frantically at his zipper. Midway however, he broke off, exuding a private grin. Ignoring Bruce’s cry of shock, he began to hack apart the remaining material, splitting the crotch area in half, then quarters, then ragged strips.


Blood spots emerged across Bruce’s skin from the blades assault, a searing deluge of grazes and cuts. Luckily none sunk deep enough for concern, but that stroke of luck eluded Bruce‘s appreciation. Instead mortification flourished in his cheeks, as the Joker whooped with mirth, rejoicing at uncovering him piece by piece. Like an overly eager child unwrapping a birthday gift, he plucked strings of fabric from Bruce’s thighs and crotch, tossing each over his shoulder.


‘Your sick,’ Bruce grated, craning his neck up from his lying position to try and claim the Joker’s gaze, currently spinning everywhere but his face. ’You need help.’ he implored, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. This wasn’t begging, he told himself, because the Batman didn’t beg. He was only making a genuine offer to rehabilitate this man, offer him one last chance. Nevertheless, it was humiliating to hear just how desperately his words spilled into the air.


‘Oh honey, I could say the same of yooou!’ the Joker sing-songed, tugging off the ruins that used to resemble Bruce’s designer pants. Bruce’s head hit back against the pillow in despair, eyes travelling to the stucco ceiling. He stared ahead, aware that he was completely exposed and about to be completely defiled in whatever manner the Joker’s perverted imagination concocted. He knew this, yes, but he wasn’t going to witness it unless forced. Any other victim would have tears streaming down their cheeks by this point, but Bruce had lost that ability long ago. He would just have to endure.


Movement in his peripheries and a snap of plastic caused him to roll his head to the side. With his back to Bruce, the Joker had discarded his knife and detonator, although they remained in close vicinity on the desk, and was sliding on a pair of sterilised gloves. Then he whirled around, embracing a clipboard.


‘What’s on the agenda today for Master Wayne,’ he mused aloud, trailing the list Bruce doubted even referred to him. ‘No, no, nope,‘ His finger halted. ‘Aah yes - prostate examination!’


‘Filthy degenerate!’ Bruce roared, his brief outburst vibrating the table and screeching its wheels.


‘Temper, temper,’ the Joker cooed, not rattled in the slightest. He strutted towards the table, swaying his hips. Once there, he inclined so that his breath wafted across Bruce’s lips. Their eyes aligned and Bruce’s stomach twisted into a knot of nausea. ‘Stop getting all edgy, I’ll be gentle okay?’ He pouted with concentration, and laid a hand to part Bruce’s thighs.


Rocking his cheek away, Bruce’s eyelids fluttered closed when the Joker touched him, determined to seal it off, deny it.
The rubber glove tip was slick from some kind of lubricant, he realised, as the first digit glided in, penetrating him with unsettling ease. The Joker had filed these particular nails which he supposed he should feel grateful for but somehow didn’t.


His muscles tightened as they were breached further and his whole body stiffened when the Joker pressed a splayed hand onto his abdomen for support. Its pressure trapped a running nerve, causing his thighs to tremble. Displaying an abnormal level of restraint, the Joker went laboriously slow, impaling Bruce to the hilt bit by bit, then retreating carefully.


Soon, the Joker’s finger slanted to a different angle, opening Bruce up wider. He battled a craving to retch at the thought of what it might be replaced with soon. In a frustrated spasm he shook his head to and fro, matting his gelled hair on the pillow with each sweep. He heard a plastic shrivelling - a glove being bitten off - then one lukewarm, slightly moist hand was patting down his hair, while the other drove in a second finger. The stretch this time burned, drawing from him an anguished groan.


Shushing him, the Joker stooped to plant a kiss on Bruce’s forehead. When it only provoked a throaty growl in response, he sighed. ‘It’ll get better. Did you know, a man can climax by this action alone? Just gotta find the right button, keep at it long enough, and bombs ah-waay!’


Surprised, but unperturbed, Bruce replied, ‘Not me.’ he bit. ‘It won’t happen to me.’


‘Wouldn’t be so very sure of that,’ The bold arrogance of his enemy’s voice entwined with its mocking lilt grated on Bruce like a match striking against an abrasive. And somehow it seemed amplified in the absence of his vision. ‘Besides, why don’t you rise to the challenge?’ the Joker suggested, snickering proudly at his own innuendo.


‘Cut the crap Joker, and tell me -’ Bruce’s breath caught sharply when knuckles curved inside him. The raw burn worsened when he clenched around the Joker’s fingers involuntarily, reactionary tears thronging beneath his squeezed shut eyelids. The unwholesome sensation was impossible to adjust to. ‘What is this!’ he barked through gritted teeth. ‘What are you trying prove?’


‘That even a moody bat as squished and repressed as you, must need some outlet. What do you have? Just that ol’ revenge-fuelled rage?’ he answered derisively, meeting Bruce’s eyes as they abruptly unveiled themselves, quaking with predictable dark fury.


‘Think of it as therapy…,’ he drawled, still fingering Bruce lazily as though it were the most normal, casual practise in the world. ‘We need to break down to re-build. Meaning - you need to loose some control.’


Bruce frowned, but the Joker continued, gesturing with a jaunty hand.


‘Trust me, I’ve been around enough quacks and whackos to tell the signs. And I can help you exorcise those demons. You should, what’s that old line - love thy enemy? Or was it keep your enemies close? Whichever, the truth is I’m giving you the perfect opportunity.’


He swooped eye-level to Bruce, hovering a fringe away from his lips. The readjusted position made him burrow even deeper inside, fingers scissoring, and Bruce shivered - breath rattling through his body. Those coal-framed eyes bore into his and he stared back, hateful but rapt.


‘Because I know you better then you know yourself - because I know deep down in that bat cave of yours, in some dirty corner, you’ve thought about it. Fantasised perhaps - about it coming down to this - this primal urge, this chaos. Somewhere, sometime you’ve wanted this, but its just another rule you won’t break. But do it. You can. Break it Bruce, remember one little push is all it takes, so let it loose.’


By now, the Joker’s body heat had melted away most of the friction, and he was now flowing in and out of Bruce with rhythmic smoothness. And just as Bruce allowed himself relief for not reaching arousal, the Joker’s finger pads brushed against something - a ghost of a touch, but its resulting frisson was ample enough to make him gasp, a moan hitching in his throat.


‘Bingo.’ the Joker trilled.


Mouthing a curse, Bruce arched his spine as the Joker hit the spot again, this time dead-on. ’I hate you,’ he breathed, eyelashes flickering and eyes rolling upwards in pleasure.


The Joker tilted his head into the curve of Bruce’s neck, licking crudely along his collarbone. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way.’ he replied in a grainy whisper, reaching down to fist Bruce’s hardening cock.


Within a minute Bruce felt like his blood had been injected with liquid fire, his entire being throbbed and broke into a sticky sweat as the Joker pumped him with rough, agile fingers. The double intensity was unlike anything sexual he’d ever felt or been close to feeling.


Denying who was extracting the moans from him was impossible when the Joker’s lips lingered around his throat and tongue kept darting out to lick the shell of his ear or wet his jaw. They were merely teases compared to the penetration he was being dealt down below, and unnecessary for the task of bringing him off. This was a purely physical reaction, nothing more, Bruce assured himself. The Joker had tricked him into this and it was only a defeatist attitude that kept him from squirming away, instead of wallowing in the warmth of the Joker‘s perverse kisses. It was only to end it sooner, that he pushed back wantonly on the Joker’s fingers, aching into the touch.


The tip of his cock was flushed, thick shaft veering on a shade of purple due to the Joker’s firm grip and the constant thumbing he did over his head. Bruce writhed on the solid mattress beneath him, faintly annoyed that he was prevented from grabbing hold of the Joker’s straining biceps as he worked harder, and control the pace of his erratic strokes. Instead, he had to lay there and take it, heaving moans while green hair dangled across his brow.


‘C’mon faster…’ he was urging moments later, burying his face in the Joker’s neck and sucking on its salty texture before he realised what he was doing. His orgasm was on the brink, tell-tale heat spooling in his groin. Silently, Bruce’s request was fulfilled as the Joker’s slick fingers slipped out to concentrate on quickening his strokes.


‘Fuck.’ Bruce hissed, rocking up into the Joker’s hand with an abandon he couldn’t believe he was capable of. Against his own neck, the Joker was murmuring obscene encouragement, but what was truly terrifying was that the self-loathing and disgust he foresaw was totally absent in the moments where it should have been screaming at him. But his surroundings were growing hazy and all it took was another deft squeeze to cast him into oblivion, to spurt out in ribbons over the Joker’s exhausted, pulsating hand.


After catching his breath, the Joker straightened up and cleaned himself off, but not before capturing Bruce’s mouth in a plaintive kiss, teeth snagging on his lower lip. Bruce neither responded, nor resisted. Warmth still wrapped around his bones from their clinch, but the sweat was already turning cold on his back. Unmoving, he regarded the Joker as turned and scaled the desk, and awaited the onslaught of guilt, shame, self-loathing or some other related emotion into his system. It didn’t come. For now he was emptied of all of them.


About to jump from the window pane, the Joker smirked at Bruce from over his shoulder, ’I’d like to say I told you so but -,’


‘Don’t.’ said Bruce flatly. He noticed the Joker’s tented skirt and extra heat flushed through his body.


‘Forgive my ungracious exit then, I’d love to stop and snuggle in post-coital bliss, alas,’ he fanned a melodramatic hand to his forehead. ‘No rest for the wicked.’


At that, Bruce’s satiated brain suddenly kicked into gear. ‘Wait!’ he called, as the Joker bent to jump.


‘Yesss?’


‘Where’s Dr. Paxton? What have you done with him?’


‘Oh, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,’ sighed the Joker, sounding vaguely disappointed by the question. ‘I just gave him a taste of his own medicine. Best wake him up, I guess.’ Fishing in his nurses pocket, he withdrew the knife again. To Bruce’s relief, the sharp edge was locked away.


‘So looong, lover!’ the Joker shrieked, hitting the plastic butt against an fire emergency button on the wall nearby and shattering the glass. When the siren bell began to wail, flooding through the building, he‘d already leapt from the window and disappeared.


‘So long.’ Bruce murmured softly.



A/N: Bruce roaring 'Filthy degenerate' at the Joker in Serious House on Serious Earth had me in inner fits of giggles, so I had to steal the line myself and use it. It belongs to Grant Morrison - what a legend. This was fun as fuck to write, so I hope some of you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading xoxo