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Why Can't We Laugh Just Like We Did Then?

Summary:

He finally wrapped his hand around the door knob, twisting it to the side and pulling it toward himself.

The cold air immediately hit Bruce’s face, but it could never be as chilling as the image standing before him.

The Joker.

OR

Batman (Bruce) gets a unexpected visit on his day off by a VERY unhappy clown.

Notes:

Heyy everyone. So I was spinning the idea for this oneshot in my head for a while and since I haven't posted in a LOT (I WILL finish my ongoing fics I promise) I decided to post this at 11;00pm while my cat bites my keyboard.

THANK U SO MUCH TO @deusnoctem FOR PROOFREADING THIS, CHECK 'EM OUT

Work Text:

It was raining. A constant pitter-patter of droplets against Bruce’s window. A cold Gotham night like any other. At Dick and Cas’ request he had taken the night off and let them patrol (in their words, he was turning into a ‘workaholic stress monster’) and they were being proven right by Bruce’s nervous fidgeting.

He had to be out there. Gotham was a crime cesspool and it kept growing by the minute. With Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn's recent teamup many of Gothams crime lords were antsy. Even smaller criminals, seemingly inspired by Quinn’s turn to a new leaf, were carefully stepping into Joker’s territories to try and get a piece of the imprisoned clown’s loot. Efforts which more often than not ended in a bloodbath. It was a warning to take him seriously. And as much as it was a warning it was a threat to both women; proof that he was still Gotham’s clown prince of crime, despite the recent betrayal. But Batman knew that he was losing control. The last time he had apprehended the clown his usual spectacle was…off. Preformative in a way that felt ungenuine. When he’d sent him off to Arkham, in their familiar dance, he hadn’t even laughed.

Not to mention that the ones now dealing with all of this were his kids. His family. The people he cared about. Barbara had spoken to Jason and Dick about it. Her worry of going out on the streets. And her doubts that Batman was fully equipped to deal with it. Bruce sighed, rubbing his temple as he took another sip of the tea Alfred had insisted he serve him before Dick and Cas left. He pulled out a small bottle from the couch cushions, unscrewing the top and dropping a generous amount of whiskey onto the teacup. He deserved some, after all it was as if today everyone was ganging up on him. He felt his phone buzz, scrolling through the myriad of business related messages until he reached the most recent one. Some stupid picture Dick had taken on the rooftops, followed by a text reading ‘we’re still alive, don’t panic too much yet’. Bruce let out a chuckle, feeling warmth settle into his heart like a blanket.

He knew they could take care of themselves. All of his children. Most of them had grown up under him already, taking the family business of vigilante and their own little sector of Gotham. But Bruce was always Gotham’s favorite. The city, with her many mysteries, always seemed to open herself up for the greatest detective. If Joker was the city's crowned jester, then Batman was her knight. And even now he felt her calling. It only made him feel more useless, sitting in his wide living room knocking his feet against the carpet. How could he not be restless? It wasn’t as if the crime threatening his city would directly knock on his doorstep.

…He was snapped out of his thoughts by a knock on his door.

Batman immediately hones in on the sound, his detective instincts in full effect. It's not the polite but rough sound of Damian’s knock and Jason would have just climbed in through a window. Even when Bruce insists that he just use the door. He narrows his eyes, already on edge from the lack of his usual patrol activity. The unfamiliar knocking continued, and Bruce was almost sure it was going to the beat of a ballroom song he’d heard sometime at a Gala.

He could hear Alfred stepping into the living room, meeting Bruce’s dark gaze. “Sir, would you like me to answer the door? I see you seem to still be busy with your brooding” he quipped, composed and caring as usual. Everything was in order but a feeling in Bruce’s gut said otherwise. It curled and uncurled, forming into a dark whirlwind of worry. Something wasn’t right.

“No it’s okay Alfred, I’ll get it” the dark haired man tried to keep his voice steady, not to let his actual feelings show as he’d practiced many times before. But Alfred as usual was able to tell through his facade with a piercing gaze.

“If you insist, sir.” the butler relented as his body seemed to let out a breath of worry. His disapproval was implied, but Bruce had a feeling that this mysterious knocker was something he should deal with himself.

And so he did. His steps were heavy, even without the batsuit he was still generally well built, muscly and heavy not helped by his generally impressive height. When he reached the door, he was able to recognize a melody being hummed in unison with each knock. Pierrot Lunaire. As the piece began to crescendo, reaching a desperate peak, he finally wrapped his hand around the door knob, twisting it to the side and pulling it toward himself.

The cold air immediately hit Bruce’s face, but it could never be as chilling as the image standing before him.

The Joker was wet from the rain, the Arkham gray jumpsuit he was wearing torn at the sides possibly by branches and barbed wires. His pale white skin had red angry scratches and cuts. Whether made by himself or someone else Bruce couldn’t tell. His green hair was stuck to his face, makeup smudged and old looking from the days he’d been on Arkham without it. But what made Bruce’s blood run the coldest was his eyes. The wet lashes blinked slowly without that madness or intensity. They looked cold, empty. He was hugging himself, rubbing the sides of his arms in a motion that was between self-soothing and protecting him from the cold.

By reflex the Batman instinct in him almost lunged forward. But as Bruce, he simply looked shocked “how did you-” the vigilante was petrified. He’d always had an inkling that his identity, after so many years of fighting, hadn’t been exactly a full secret. Joker had his ways of finding things that people didn’t want him to.

“Batsy.” he said in a strained voice, stopping Bruce’s query in its tracks “do you think I’m stupid?”

The way he spoke, his humorless tone devoid of any comedy but still strangely sweetly venomous was like a snake in clown makeup. And Bruce wasn’t sure how to respond.

Joker seemed to take that as an invitation, strolling into the mansion with a lack of pep to his step and a deep feeling of anger settled into Bruce’s gut. And suddenly he felt as if he had the cowl on.

“I’m taking you back to Arkham.” He growled, slow and decided as he always was. This was his house. He was worried for Alfred, his children. He couldn’t let a mass murderer waltz in here like he owned the place. Thinking Bruce would let him.

Joker turned around sharply and the black haired man thought that he was about to slash at him. He didn’t look amused or surprised. In fact, the look under his green curls reminded him of a mangy, stray cat. Unstable, always willing to bite the hand that feeds. And despite the way it made Wayne want to punch a hole in his face, it felt as if the villain would crumble to pieces taking Batman along with him.

“I’m not in the mood for games, batsy” he snarled “and I’m not here for your pity.”

And as if reading Bruce’s mind, with a shaky grin he added “I’m here to blow some steam off, handsome. Just a little session before I’m schmucked back into the looney bin” but before even a piece of the dark haired man’s confusion addled brain could understand what the hell any of that meant, he had pale white nails lunging back at him. His feet were nimble on the carpet with the grace of a crippled dancer, and Batman barely managed to dodge the sudden attack.

The clown was breathing in harshly, bones protruding through his skin as he finally smiled again. A smile Bruce knew far too well from all these years of fighting tooth and nail. And its effect was instantaneous. The mindset of Batman was overtaking Bruce. The need to punch, crunch, bite. Give out all that he knew Joker could take. Because even with villains he always held back. But Gotham’s prince of crime? That was his exception.

And so, he returned to their dance. He was fast on his feet, burly body pushing upward to grab the clown by the ribs. Once he had a decent grip he pushed down with force, banging him against the plush carpet. It took Joker but a second to kick back, leg pushing Bruce down atop his back. The black haired man managed to grab the other’s ankle, pulling him back with him.

Joker made a sound that was between a chuckle and a gasp, trying to bite at Bruce’s forearm before the man pulled back “I didn't see you out on the rooftops tonight, batsy” he breathed warmly onto his arm “was starting to think you’d ran off too”

And as much as it was meant as comedic, his tone sounded painfully bitter. Like a violin chord about to snap. And Bruce was sure if he kicked him out he’d hear about a massacre the next morning in the paper. And with his children out there? He couldn’t do it.

The Joker was his mess to deal with.

As they fought, Bruce’s brain multitasked, arms blocking punches as he considered. He didn’t know why this was so urgent. What had truly caused Joker to fall off the edge this night. Him escaping Arkham wasn’t anything new, Harley Quinn breaking him out was almost routine for them. And maybe that had been it.

There had been no one to break him out but himself. And no little bat wandering the street nights to release any anger on.

Things were changing. And Bruce felt stupid for not considering this as the natural outcome.

As Joker threw out another slash of his nails, Bruce caught his wrist. But this time when he pulled him closer Joker’s head leaned forward, blowing a kiss before forcefully bumping his head against Bruce’s.

Batman threw a punch, hitting him right in the face. He could almost have sworn he heard the crack of bone breaking as the pale man’s nose started bleeding crimson. And the masochistic fuck laughed. A hearty, fragile sound that made Bruce’s hand fly up to his reddened lips. They had to be quiet.

As Joker turned back, it looked as if he had lipstick again.

And he’d never looked more like himself.

Some sounds from the kitchen, though, broke Bruce out of their fight. Determined footsteps, approaching fast. He almost felt his heart stop. Alfred began to walk into the living room, slow but almost faster than Bruce could push Joker down under a flipped over desk. The fucker kept giggling. Bruce made sure his hand was putting pressure on the other's mouth, wincing as he felt sharp teeth bite down.

“Sir, is everything okay? I heard the commotion” Alfred commented with a raised eyebrow at his master’s position, and it reminded the man of being scolded by him as a child. Like when he was trying to hide a spillage or broken vase and could swear Alfred somehow already knew. He could feel his cheeks redden ever so slightly. Not enough for anyone that didn’t have microscopic vision to notice, though. And as far as he was aware, Alfred didn’t present superhuman powers yet.

“Yes, Alfred.” Bruce forced out, feeling the tip of the other man's tongue lick his fingers. It took all his strength not to actually crush Joker with the weight of the fallen over furniture. “I just…had to let off some steam.” he borrowed Jokers words

“Lack of patrol seems to make you agitated, sir. Should consider that the next time we need spring cleaning” the butler sarcastically jabbed, watching the way some beads of sweat from the extortion slipped down Bruce’s forehead.

“Well,” he began, taking a second too long to turn halfway around “I’ll leave you to it, master Bruce. Be mindful not to break any antiques” despite their very familiar interaction, they both felt the energy in the air. The unspoken fact that Batman was hiding something. A small little secret lapping and biting at his hand.

“Get up” he hissed, pulling the clown by the neck as if his hand itself were a leash. Small spaced out giggles left the man’s mouth, as if this was the funniest situation since the invention of whoopee cushions.

And at the sight of him, bloody and battered, pale skin stained red and Arkham uniform torn, Bruce didn’t feel the full satisfaction he did after every fight. Because of that smile, it looked satisfied but the corners were far too wide for comfort. Something was still going on. And now that the stray was tired out, Bruce knew he had to do something about it.

He had a library in his house for a reason. Being a good detective meant studying like a mad-man. All types of possible topics. Which included, unsurprisingly, a stressful amount of medicine. And those earlier motions the Joker had made under the rain, the repeated rubbing of his arms like he was giving himself a hug. It was telltale self-soothing behavior. Stimulations. And a part of Bruce was sure that the fighting, in some twisted way, was a manifestation of it as well.

And as much as he hated himself for it, he knew methods that could help. Only they weren’t developed for psychopathic murder clowns.

As soon as Bruce slinged the skinny body of the other man over his shoulder, he heard the surprised ‘ooh’ echoing from his mouth “you truly know how to treat a lady, Brucie! Is this what you do in your little billionaire parties?”

Batman grumbled, decidedly ignoring the comment as he headed down the hall. To his somehow great luck most of the other inhabitants of the house were gone. The halls were wide and empty. No Robin chatter to fill in the space.

He thought it was for the best that they didn’t catch him like this.

“Taking me to your room right off the bat, Brucie?” And by Jokers knowing smile he assumes the pun is on purpose. It seemed a grumble as a response wasn’t enough for the green haired man’s teasing. So Bruce opted to walk faster, opening his door and slamming it closed like he was opening the portal into Narnia.

He finally let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. Joker seemed impatient, but by the blank look in his eye Batman could tell he was completely lost as to what was happening.

It took a minute of silence for Bruce to finally say a word into the darkness of his bedroom “you’re not okay, Joker” before any protests could be made, Bruce continued “it's none of my business why. And I don’t care either. But I can’t leave you like this. My medicine skills-”

And suddenly Joker was struggling off his shoulder, eyes hurt and narrowed “medicine? Well gosh darn didn’t know you had a medical ward back here too. Is that where you take the little birdies after all those rough fights?” Jokers mocking tone made Wayne’s blood boil. And he was tempted, if not stopping himself, from giving in and fighting again. But clearly it wasn’t helping. As masochistic, deranged and sadistic as Joker was, the interesting part Bruce had learned about treatments was that in most cases the proven method was the most effective. Maybe not for the myriad of conditions that Joker possessed and would take even the best doctors years to crack, but he will be damned if he does not try.

And so, with a final sigh of preparation, Bruce wrapped his arms around the other man, pulling him up onto the bed and placing him on his lap, hands beginning to establish a rhythm. Joker’s knocks on the door had followed a rhythm of a classical song, so Bruce decided to follow the pattern by matching one his mother used to play for him when he was a child. ‘Une barque sur l'océan’. The melody wasn’t hard to keep up with as he gently tapped ungloved fingers on Joker’s skin.

At first, the other man was stiff. Guarded. As soon as Bruce’s fingers began tapping though, the man felt a shiver rack through the other's spine. His breathing, at first agitated, began to slowly follow the music as he relaxed on Bruce’s lap. It was like unwinding an old clock. Feeling as they were both slowly consumed by the darkness of the room and the constant presence of the physical contact.

And Bruce knew the doctors at Arkham couldn’t have ever considered this. And wouldn’t, whether it was with Bruce’s funding or with Batman's intimidation. Because at the end of the day, in the eyes of Gotham, criminals were criminals. But to the kid in that alley, who lost two compassionate, innocent people? Their values remained no matter how much a life of being a vigilante changed him.

Joker kept breathing. Slow, purposeful. And Bruce synced up with him. All could be said just by the silence.

And as moonlight illuminated those features, his mouth, the blood now dried, opened ever so slightly.

“Batsy”

Bruce gazed down to look at him

“We’ll always keep dancing, you and me.”

He didn’t know if it was a question or a statement. A promise or a wish. But he didn’t have to. And so as the piece reached its end, the tapping becoming slower he simply closed his eyes.

And under him, snug on his lap, he could hear the Joker laugh.