| And here - we - go. |
[Jul. 28th, 2008|04:13 am] |
Title: Cell-Block Tango
Fandom: The Dark Knight
Pairing: Bruce Wayne(/Batman)/Joker
Rating: R
Notes: I confess to having read exactly two Batman comics in my time: The Killing Joke and Mad Love. I watched the cartoon series all through my adolescence, and the very first film (lousy Batman though I thought Keaton was) gave me some odd nightmares (all Nicholson's doing). In other words, forgive my being so rooted in the audiovisual media. It's all I have. As actual notes go, all you need to know is that I'm operating on an AU assumption that Batman gets caught.
Continuity: This piece is 1/3, followed by Unstoppable Force.
Summary: There are very few rules in Arkham, and nobody follows them anyway.
Between Alfred's visits, these other visits were the only thing that kept Bruce sane. It wasn't that his accommodations were lacking: he was one of the few inmates - he refused to think of himself as a patient, regardless what his doctors said - able to afford a private room (never a cell) with such amenities as a bed, proper lighting, and a toilet seat. Nonetheless, Bruce had come to regard these things as sterile and fictitious. They were a parody of his life on the outside; he knew it and perhaps even accepted it. It was these other visits, Gordon's meager parting gift, that reminded him of the reality for which he'd been inconvenienced.
Bruce leaned heavily against the padded wall of the holding cell, waiting. It always took the guards a considerable amount of time to subdue and transport his only company this side of Arkham's gates. Either the guy Gordon was paying off was desperate, or the amount was damned near extortionate. Given Gotham P.D.'s recently limited resources, the latter wasn't likely.
Gradually, rattling keys, footsteps, and maniacal amusement ricocheted up the hall.
"No straitjacket this time, gentlemen? I'm flllattered."
"Yeah, and no gag, either - unless you don't shut your face!"
"Once a goddamned month we've got to do this, Clive. I swear - "
"I'll have a word with our good patron - " closer now, emphasized for Bruce's benefit alone " - and see if we can't just get it bumped up to twice a month, whaddaya say?"
There was a sickening thwock, something blunt coming into sharp contact with the speaker's jaw. The result wasn't silence. The laughter was bloodier than usual, an awful - yet curiously welcome - gurgle. The proof was standing in front of Bruce now, waggling its eyebrows at him as the guards unlocked the cell and slid back the bars.
"You got half an hour, you hear me?" said not-Clive, shoving the Joker at Bruce as if casting off an unwanted toy. "As usual. No funny business, mister!" Which was the wrong thing to say, but he added it anyway, his glare aimed directly at the Joker.
Clive remained silent, nodding his agreement at Bruce as he locked them in.
"There's no business to see here, officer," shouted the Joker, but the guards were already halfway up the hall. "But it's all funny, you take my word for it! Say," he added, turning his attention fully on Bruce, waggling handcuffed wrists, "you wouldn't mind helping me out of these, would you?"
Bruce shook his head curtly. "If I break your hands, they'll take my books."
"And we wouldn't want that," said the Joker, mock-gravely, pulling a gruesome pout. He fell into heavy pacing as naturally as breathing, his restless, clawed fingers trailing behind him like some demonic parody of tail-feathers. Bruce waited for the punch-line, but none seemed to be forthcoming. The Joker paced on, back and forth, lost in some internal monologue: half bent-over, eyes darting.
"Not getting enough exercize?" ventured Bruce, drily. "I feel you there."
The Joker stopped abruptly, pivoting on his heels so that they were face to face. He licked his lips, thoughtful.
"Do you, now, Batman? Or would you say it's high time we're on a first-name basis?"
"No. Not when I'm with you," Bruce said casually, folding his arms across his chest. "Then again, if you're ready to share, I suppose we could - "
"Ah-aaaah," crooned the Joker, scoldingly. "And here I thought we'd made real progress on your case. Why, just the last time we spoke I was dead sure you'd be out of here a week from Tuesday. Whatever are we going to do with you?"
"The same thing they do with you," Bruce pointed out, trying very hard not to smile. It was easier, somehow, to face this man without a mask and garish face-paint between them. Then, at least, they were as close to human as either one of them was going to get. "Back in the straitjacket I go."
The Joker grinned, closed his eyes, and lowered himself in a gesture that was somewhere between a bow and a curtsy. "Oh, now, sir, I wouldn't be so hasty. In fact, I don't believe they tailored you one to begin with. Stingy of them, isn't it? Fashion is the last shred of identity one has, even in a place like this." The Joker stood up straight and winked at Bruce. "I'd have thought at least the dignity of cosmetics and full accoutrements, seeing as that's what we're locked up for. Essentially."
Bruce nodded, finding himself willing to play along - as wasn't so uncommon in recent months - without the added benefit of kicks and punches. "It would certainly make identification easier."
The Joker's howl of laughter knifed at the concrete ceiling and slivered around them in a thousand muted pieces. "That - now, that - is exactly what I've been looking for."
Raising an eyebrow and shrugging, Bruce slid to the soft floor and sat cross-legged. "Which is?"
"Your sense of humor," said the Joker, dropping gracefully into a crouch in spite of the give beneath his feet. "I was pretty disappointed in you, dressing like that, yet having the gall to take yourself so - damned - seriously."
"At least mine's not purple."
"You ought to try it. It might suit you. Batsy," he added, tasting the improvised nickname with a flick of his tongue. "Bruce."
"And here I thought we were making progress on your case," Bruce countered, briefly amazed that the Joker's left ankle hadn't given out. After all, he'd spent a cruel and unusual amount of time hanging by it. "That's a bit intimate, don't you think? Or are you ready to give me yours?"
The Joker waggled his eyebrows and collapsed neatly to the floor, mirroring Bruce's cross-legged position. "It all depends," he said with forced earnesty, "on what we're giving, here. If it's a name you're after, I'm afraid you've got all you're going to get, see? But if we rewind a bit and focus on that intimacy thing you were talking about..." He trailed off, nodding his head as he tilted it, giving Bruce a meaningful look. "We might come to some arrangement. Of a sort."
Bruce sat back, finding the wall unwilling to give any further. "I'm afraid I don't understand. If it's my life story you're pretending to want, that's more sad than funny. You know all about me."
"Charmed childhood, tragic end for Mommy and Daddy, boo-hoo," spat the Joker, rocking forward, now up on his knees. "Listen, okay, just - look, Batman. You're right about that. I know every secret from every incinerated corner of your former playground, but just lisssten. There are things about you I don't know. Intimate things. And I do believe we've hit that point, because frankly, I lied to that poor bastard who likes to think he drags me down here once a month. No, Bruce: I use my own two feet. But what I don't use - well - " He spread his hands wide, grinning helplessly. "I'm only human. What can I say?"
"Nothing you haven't already," said Bruce, tersely. "You should probably take Clive's advice."
"Should? Perhaps," agreed the Joker, put-upon, inching forward. A bit of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth and landed on the scuffed patch of floor between them. He stared at it for a moment, fascinated, and then glanced back up at Bruce. They were inches apart now, but that distance had long ago become par for the course. "Probably?" continued the Joker. "Perhaps. But you of all people should know that doesn't mean I will."
The kiss hit Bruce square in the mouth, metallic with the jolt of clashing teeth and the residual taste of blood. Briefly, he wondered if the Joker had broken one of his teeth or bitten his tongue hard enough to mingle their blood, infect him with God-knew-what, but it only took a few seconds for Bruce's recently-practiced calm to kick in and resign him to the fact that it was just best to let the bastard get it out of his system. Bruce tried to close his mouth, but a sharp eyetooth sunk in his lower lip disabused him of that notion rather quickly. Had this guy even gotten around enough for him to worry? Psychopaths didn't normally have sex lives.
It wouldn't have been so bad if getting it out of the Joker's system wasn't taking so long, or if Bruce hadn't had the time to discover that underneath the blood-taste was a warm and surprisingly normal cocktail of orange juice and cheap toothpaste. It made sense; by then, it couldn't have been any later than nine in the morning.
The Joker broke away and gave Bruce a mischievously reproachful look, as if he'd sensed the sudden olfactory scrutiny. "I brushed just for you," he whispered loudly, unsuccessfully suppressing a cackle.
Bruce rolled his eyes and set his palms flat against the floor, about to stand up. All in the same moment, several things happened that made very little sense: there was a clockwork purr and a loud click, followed by the Joker's hands clamping down on his wrists at the same time that the rest of his body slammed forward to pin Bruce on the spot. Inappropriate, that his newfound objectivity could only prompt him to wonder at the fact that the Joker was not as heavy as he looked or walked.
"See? Funny," he murmured, taking Bruce's face between his hands. "I'll bet they wish they'd stayed. They're about to miss quite a show."
"Somehow, I don't think breaking your nose would be considered as severe as breaking your hands," Bruce grated, tensing every muscle. It wouldn't take much to throw the Joker off.
"Mmmhm. And your dear old Gordie would agree. Afraid word'll get out and he'll get jealous? All those midnight jailhouse trysts for nough - mfff."
Smashing teeth had hurt badly enough the first time, so it was worth another try. The Joker's grasp was tighter than Bruce had given him credit for, and he had perhaps misjudged the man's body mass. The Joker's wince was more surprise than pain, and the stifled burst of laughter - more clashing of orange and peppermint - turned quickly to a low, pleased growl against Bruce's mouth.
"Half an hour, Batsy," he panted harshly. "Tick tock tick - "
They should have pulled a few tendons between the two of them in Bruce's resulting lunge, but everything seemed to be in perfect working order as they bounced and landed in a tangle in the center of the floor. Bruce cursed silently and wondered why, for once in the eternal flipping of the coin, he couldn't have landed heads instead of tails. At least this time the Joker wasn't brandishing a blade in his face. Once again, the bastard seemed light. Impossibly light, yet impossible to throw off.
"Shall we end this now?" drawled the Joker, raking one hand roughly through Bruce's hair. "I sense you're getting impatient. So, now that I've got you where I want you, I'm going to ask question number - "
Bruce bashed him in the side of the head, but his teeth didn't so much as rattle. The Joker grabbed Bruce's hand and forced it to the padded floor beside his head, eyes alight with eternal amusement. "What did I tell you about going for the - "
Gradually, rattling keys, footsteps, and mundane banter drifted up the hall.
"I hate being interrupted," sighed the Joker, rolling off of Bruce as swiftly as he'd pinned him. He rummaged behind himself for the handcuffs, casually snapping them back on without turning his head so much as a fraction. His eyes never once left Bruce, who'd sprung to his feet and was contemplating the merits of delivering a good, swift kick to the Joker's teeth. Who liked peppermint, anyway?
With as much grace as before, the Joker got to his feet and stepped close to Bruce, his eyes all simpering innocence. "Was it good for you? Although I have to say, your technique could use a little - "
Clive and his companion were intelligible now, nearly in view.
"So," he concluded quickly. "If not purple, that whole forever thing I mentioned ages ago seems to suit. Whaddaya say?"
"Time's up," said not-Clive, standing in full view, arms folded. Clive hovered behind him for a moment, smirking, before coming forward with the keys. The lock turned with a rusty clank.
"Never," Bruce said, finding his true voice hadn't left him after all. The door swung shut again, but only temporarily.
"That's my boy!" crowed the Joker, head swiveling back over his shoulder as the guards led him away.
For a couple of weeks, at least, Bruce would have plenty to think about. Whether or not it would keep him sane was another matter entirely.
- Continue to Part II: Unstoppable Force - |
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