| TDK fic, continued: "Immovable Object" - Part 3/4 - NC17 - Batman/Joker |
[Aug. 1st, 2008|02:01 pm] |
Title: Immovable Object
Fandom: The Dark Knight
Pairing: Bruce Wayne(/Batman)/Joker
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Part 3/4; follows I. Cell-Block Tango and II. Unstoppable Force. I suggest reading the first couple installments, as this one will make a lot more sense if you do. For the record, this is set in an AU where Bruce has been caught and put in Arkham (with a difference, I hope). Now, all bets are off - and no narrator is reliable.
Summary: Motives and desires are two very different things.
If nothing else, Bruce Wayne considered himself a consummate researcher and, when circumstances required, a decent spy. As limiting as his present circumstances were, there had been very few obstacles in reaching his most recent goal. Alfred was as loyal and persuasive an emissary as any man could hope for; before a week and a half had passed since his most recent unfortunate tête-à-tête, Alfred had been able to secure Bruce (for a price just shy of extortionate) a copy of the Joker's medical admittance record to Arkham. Seeing as no other relevant documents on his nemesis existed, it was all Bruce could hope to work from.
Two hours later, Bruce tossed the entire folder on the floor, not caring where the contents scattered. Not only did the file make no mention of scars (beyond the obvious), tattoos, or other potential distinguishing features, but the bastard's blood-test results had come out clean as a whistle. How on earth did you go around carrying that many sharp objects and not end up with some kind of infection?
Bruce closed his eyes and rested his forehead against his folded hands, desperate for focus. He wanted to know what he was up against. He needed to know who he was dealing with. And if there was anything to be learned about the Joker, it had to be written somewhere on his person, safely concealed by the remnants of that rag-tag couture and more recently added hospital whites.
Difficult though it was to admit, it looked as if Bruce's only choice was to play along with the madman's latest method of aggravated assault, sickly orange-peppermint taste and all. If Bruce played his cards right, maybe even instigated the next incident before the Joker could manage to pin him...
After all, it was his game. The twisted bastard had better have the gall to finish it.
(Besides: Bruce had instructed Alfred to inquire after Gordon's fee and buy them an extra thirty minutes at time-and-a-half.)
* * *
"Hey, Clown Boy," says the insecure one - maybe to you, maybe not - "you got any more stories to tell? Anderson here is bored of starin' at your ugly mug."
Anderson. So that's his name. Around you, the staff are allowed to hide their nametags if they want. Turn-about is rarely fair play, but you've still got the advantage. You know what they dream about when the world's on fire.
"None I'd like to share. Clive." Your lips are sealed. Keep your eyes down, focus on the flip of the cards. Ace, jack, queen, jack, ace. Very good.
"I swear to God, he shouldn't be allowed to have those," complains Anderson.
"I dunno about that," says Clive, ignoring his partner - tsk. "He'll change his tune when we throw him an 'ol Batsy back in the tank. That's what he's callin' Mr. Wayne now."
You know how it's going to go. Smirk and say nothing, flip the next card. Yours.
"He's been awfully quiet this week," continues Anderson. "Gives me the creeps."
"And he can heeear you." Taunt him, but don't look up. Twotenjackacequeenkingace -
"He ain't even playin' solitaire like a normal person. He's just - "
"Checkmate," you correct him. "Hasn't anyone taught you how to play chess?"
"But you n-need a b-board for that," Anderson points out, stuttering like no tomorrow.
"Of course you don't. All you really need is enough space."
* * *
Bruce groaned at the sound of his alarm. Eight-thirty. World's worst breakfast.
He tried to eat the scrambled eggs and couldn't; there was something vaguely greenish about them this week, and the shade was specific enough to turn his stomach. He turned his attention to the oatmeal instead, which had - unaccountably, unless Alfred was looking out for his diet - bits of banana in it. Not so bad, he decided, and ate half the bowl. When you're hungry, miracles do happen.
Getting dressed wasn't the chore it once had been. His choices were fairly limited, although not as limited as those of some of Arkham's patients. He was surprised that even the Joker was permitted to retain a few of his eccentricities: the necktie, the playing-cards, and the horrible socks. Where the hell did he shop, anyway?
Hospital whites, slippers, and nothing else. There was no need to make this any more complicated than it already was. The starchy material itched Bruce's skin in strange places, making him wonder if he shouldn't have foregone the boxers.
"Rise and shine, Mr. Wayne," said Clive, already outside, twirling the key-ring around two fingers, promptly dropping it. Not-Clive - whose name, it turned out, was Anderson - retrieved them quickly and unlocked Bruce's door, beckoning him forward. They were always civil, if mildly mocking.
"Watch out," Clive said under his breath, taking Bruce's left bicep in a firm grip. "He's been...funny these days. I'm just saying. I'd watch out if I were you."
"Don't let it get to you," Bruce advised him. "Besides, you used to be pretty free with your words."
"Yeah, well," Anderson muttered. "I've learned. The less you give him to play with, the better."
So noted, Bruce thought grimly. "Good morning, Clive," he said pleasantly.
"Yeah, whatever. Same routine as usual, 'cept somebody higher-up figures you guys have been on good behavior and deserve a full hour. What're you gonna waste it on, a few more black eyes and bruised shins?" Clive winked at him.
"Come on," Bruce said mildly. Clive thought he was such a blowhard it made the Joker look sincere in comparison. "That hasn't happened for at least a couple months."
"I don't know. Last time, your buddy had an egg on the right side of his head."
"Must've been your careful handling," Bruce concluded, and Clive shut his mouth.
When they reached the holding cell, to Bruce's surprise, the Joker was already inside.
"Morning, Mr. Wayne," he said, ignoring the guards. "Tell me, do you dream much?" He waved impishly, revealing that he wasn't handcuffed.
Bruce sighed as Anderson nudged him inside and then slid the bars shut. It was going to be a long sixty minutes, and he wasn't certain his script would get him that far.
* * *
Wearing your finest? Good call: the Batman's looking you up and down as if he isn't sure whether he wants to break you or eat you. Excellent choice of greeting, too. This one's particularly suggestible - but you knew that already. Everything else is icing.
"Not really," says Bruce, who just refuses to go away. "Do you?"
"Ah-aaah, I thought we had already established - "
No pleasantries, you moron. Are you trying to ruin your best-laid plans?
You've got him confused in the very least. Now he doesn't know where to look. And now he's shuffling forward on those oh-so-dainty kickers, onesteptwo, and -
You're not ready for this, no matter what you may be thinking.
" - mmmhhhft!"
You didn't think Batsy liked kissing all that much. In fact, you were under the impression he likes it even less than you do. But you forgot to brush, so it's all going to turn out just fine, because in a moment or two his tongue will cease that restless wandering and he'll flinch the very second you pull -
Wrong again! He's not going anywhere, and deep, deep down, you know it.
He looks disgusted, maybe a little bit in pain. Here he goes again. Maybe if you bite -
Oh, and there's this: he isn't going to stop. Even if you bite.
You bite all right. Hard.
* * *
Bruce tasted blood almost immediately, but the pain was insignificant in comparison to what he'd subjected himself to on a nightly basis for what, in his memory, had seemed like an eternity without dawn. He couldn't detect the toothpaste this time around, which was almost a relief - although there was the orange juice, just the same as before. Unbidden, he wondered why this wasn't twice as disgusting as it actually was. The Joker's mouth was disappointingly normal, now that he was paying proper attention to it: warm, wet, and predictably uneven where the scars followed the lines of his teeth along the insides of his cheeks. Even the Joker's hair was softer to the touch than he'd expected, less oily. Perhaps it was the result of Arkham's enforced - or just plain forced - bathing policy.
The Joker's palms were pressed flat against Bruce's chest, exerting an astonishing amount of force. By the time Bruce had torn his attention away from the hair tangled in his fingers, he realized that the sounds the Joker was making weren't ones of enjoyment. He was choking. Laughing all the while, but gagging nonetheless.
Bruce pulled back for a second time, but he wasn't letting go, oh no. He wrapped one arm tightly around the Joker's neck and slid the other down to his waist, pulling the man in roughly. Strange, to think of him as just that: a man and nothing more. A man with a name, a history, and even a past. He had been born as Bruce had been born, and he would surely die. By the sound of his restored breathing, it wouldn't be today.
"You know," wheezed the Joker, his fingers scrabbling ineffectually at Bruce's chest, trying to get a firm hold on the rough white fabric, "I really hate surprises."
"Then maybe you shouldn't deal out so many," Bruce suggested, relinquishing his hold on the Joker's neck. He took hold of the Joker's unpainted chin instead, forcing him to hold his head still. "Hey, no - look here. Good. Did I surprise you?"
The Joker just cackled, his eyes rolling wildly side to side, then back up to the ceiling. Something wasn't usual, though - wasn't quite right. Even without the benefit of black grease-paint, the Joker's dark eyes looked glazed at best and dead tired at worst. What Bruce saw then was something else entirely, in spite of the erratic movement: there was a spark in them so alive that he could only imagine the Joker refused to look at him because he was trying to hide it.
"Listen, did you hear what I said?" Bruce demanded, giving the Joker's chin a rough shake. "Look at me!"
The Joker's eyes skittered down in a short, straight line and froze. Perfectly still.
Perfectly still and fucking terrified, Bruce thought in awe, hardly able to contain a thrill of excitement. This guy can survive a flipped semi-truck and take more bone-breaking blows than any thug I know, yet he's out-and-out terrified of me right now, which is something he's never been before!
The Joker finally blinked, his tongue darting out nervously. His hands were fisted ineffectually in Bruce's hospital shirt, ever so slightly beginning to tremble.
"So," he said, the mock-casual tone belied by the slightest trace of something that was, like the look in his eyes, entirely new. "Now that you've got me, what're you planning to do, exactly? Kiss me to death?" The cocksure voice cracked just as the backlit eyes fluttered and rolled, coming back to perfect focus a split-second later.
Bruce couldn't be sure why, but in that instant, he felt something he'd never been before: really and truly sorry for this horrible, murdering thing that had burst out of nowhere and onto the stage of his life without so much as an explanation.
And he didn't know why, either, but it was only right that he summon as much tenderness for this as he might violence under other circumstances, no matter what the cost. He'd treat this unnamed fear with respect.
It was the Joker who finally bent his head, hesitantly, and planted a mocking kiss on the spot he'd bitten. His tongue jittered across the wound in its wake, then touched the corner of his mouth.
"Batsy," he whispered. It held the bitter, hateful sound of impending defeat.
* * *
You said it would be your digits doing the dirty work, but you knew that was a lie. So you just stand there, that's right, shaking while the Batman draws your coat off your shoulders and down your arms. All business, this guy, but not without style. Say, are you taking notes? Because under that shirt of yours - oh, there, see, that was quick! - he's going to find goosebumps the size of the Himalayas, and that's the kind of thing you're out to inspire, isn't it?
You can't just let this happen. Perhaps -
- you really do want this. Perhaps you'll just let him strip you down to nothing - courtesy of that extra thirty minutes, which he paid for - and stand there, still shaking, while his eyes give you the once-over of your life. There. Like that.
"Listen," says the Batman, finally, turning one finger in the air as if to indicate you can finally step out of your trousers. "This isn't exactly - "
"Thenwhatthefuckisit? For your amusement?"
Now, I'm sure spitting in his face like that won't get the answers you're looking for.
"Shut up! Shuttupshuttupshuttup!"
* * *
It wasn't going at all according to plan.
Now that he'd come to it, Bruce felt sorry he'd resolved to at least strip the bastard down and have a good, close look at every visible inch of him. There were scars on his chest, although they weren't as numerous as Bruce's own, and they were no longer visible, because the Joker was doubled over and shrieking at him. As far as he could tell, there weren't any scars on the Joker's legs, and as for his back, well, he wasn't quite sure this was the right point at which to turn him around and check.
Down to his ankles the Joker went, as swiftly and gracefully as before.
From his vantage point, Bruce got a good look. There were was a long, livid scar from the top one shoulderblade to the bottom of other, crossing the Joker's spine. No rhyme or reason to why his record hadn't mentioned it, and certainly no tattoos to speak of.
Hesitantly, Bruce sank to his knees. No, this wouldn't tell him anything. Only...
The Joker's head flew up at the brush of Bruce's fingertips against his shoulder.
"Some fun," he spat, throwing off Bruce's hand - which wasn't difficult, because his own hand had been curled into a tight fist at his collarbone. "Can't you take a joke? I didn't mean it, Batsy - I mean, wh-what would've been the fun in that?" He laughed low and gurgling in his throat, but the sound broke on a terse gasp.
Bruce's mind raced. "Look, it was a horrible ruse. I thought - "
"No you didn't," hissed the Joker, laughing again, low and terrible. "Oh, no, you don't think. Not you. No, never."
Rage boiled up in Bruce's throat. It was too much to hear his own sincerity mocked.
"Sit down!" he snapped. "And for God's sake, be still."
* * *
Batsy's got a temper on him, so you'd better listen quick and do as he says.
You'd rather not. It's cold in the room all of a sudden, so very cold. You lie back at the Batman's urging. The ceiling looks as soft as the walls - which of course it's not - and Batsy's fingers down your arms and across your chest are what's soft instead.
"Unbelievable," he's saying. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Oh, but there is something. Would you lift your head and take a look at that?
You don't want to. You know it and you feel it and it hurts. And nothing, noth-ing is supposed to hurt anymore. You made sure of that. But you didn't count on this.
So just you take that deep, deep breath. And for God's sake, be still.
The Batman's hand on your belly now: the nerve of it, resisting even though you've got his wrist in both your fists fit to break his you've got it so hard. And this is not what you expected, but he did. The sheer nerve.
"I'm sorry," says the Batman, as if it means anything now, to have laid you this low -
He'll make it quick if you would only wish it so -
* * *
In that clean and sterile space, Bruce knew he hadn't done his best. He'd failed.
The Joker was naked and motionless on the floor, hands flat against the crinkling give, fingers loosely clawed. His eyes were fixed unsteadily on the ceiling, swift flickers of movement betraying some movement of thought behind them. And he was aroused, yes: there was that. But it wasn't what Bruce had expected, wasn't some whirlwind of greedy fury and lust. It was all fear and freezing, some deep, dark emptiness.
Still, he'd made a promise that, having been mistaken, he would do his best.
In two quick movements, Bruce's clothing was gone. Fair was fair. Still, the Joker barely seemed to notice, his eyes flicking only briefly down as Bruce leaned forward over the his face and attempted to make eye contact, questioning.
"You didn't want this? That's the game?"
A crushed giggle escaped the Joker's throat, wavering indecisively on the air.
"Fine," Bruce said, setting his hand back on the Joker's belly. It was difficult to remember gentleness, and it probably wouldn't have made a difference. Such a gesture was probably lost on a man like this - but he was just that. Only human.
The Joker started at the first brush of Bruce's fingers, but there was no sound of laughter to accompany the wire-taut strain of his limbs. And no matter where Bruce put his hands, no matter where his fingers skimmed, there was nothing but hardness and tremor, nothing save sheer loathing and disbelief. He took the Joker's cock in his hand and stroked it carefully.
Circumcised. Birth records, he thought in despair. Is that the only place to start? He could've been born anywhere in the country - or out of it.
The Joker made a sound that was more growl than snicker, harsh and grating.
"You'll have to give me more than that," said Bruce, resigned, and kept on stroking.
* * *
- and you do.
The thing is, it's not about sex. You just keep that in mind while I explain this. It's about intimacy, which was the problem in the first place. Take how you're trembling and writhing, for an example: did you honestly think some part of you wouldn't miss this? Because missing human contact isn't quite the same as missing a specific person. And Batsy isn't any of your long-losts, if you even remember which one of them was real, but he's someone. And he's kissing you again, and, for the record? It isn't so bad. It's his twisted way of showing you mercy. Rather creative, don't you think?
"Yes," you murmur, surprised to hear yourself clearly, what with all the enthusiasm of Batsy's lips getting in the way.
"Be quiet," rasps the Batman, and suddenly his hand's gone from where you miss this most, no. "If you say one more word - "
Not much for talk, this one - so again, you'd better do as he says. See, you had to fall this far before you'd give me the time of day, so while I've got your attention, I'll be taking just as much advantage as Mr. Wayne here, thank you very much. Although I'm not sure if this is quite the time to be continuing our little heart-to-heart, because, ooh, Brucey's warm, isn't he, so very warm! And you've been cold. So very.
You close your eyes, kiss him back, and - for a split second - hate yourself.
* * *
Abruptly, Bruce knew it was a sign he belonged in Arkham, too. At least for now.
He wondered if the Joker found him heavier than he had seemed during hand-to-hand combat, or if he held only the weight of a shadow even now as they tangled and heaved, sweat-sheened, to some entirely different purpose. The Joker sank his teeth hard into Bruce's shoulder, and Bruce shuddered. He should have let the man talk.
Bruce's script hadn't included this, of course. Not per se. He'd acknowledged it as a distinct possibility, what with all the Joker's previous hard-to-read taunting, but he hadn't realized that it would, in the humiliation of misjudgment and error, become mandatory. The Joker was moving against him more desperately now, his breath against Bruce's neck coming in short, ragged gasps. At the first grazing of those lethal eyeteeth, Bruce turned his head and caught the Joker's mouth with his own. Better his mouth get ripped up, which is what usually happens first in an unarmored fight.
The Joker laughed, more a rumble in his chest. Bruce felt it reverberate through his own and shivered. He matched him thrust for thrust, desperately, just aching to end it.
Don't try to tell yourself there's nothing below the belt. You've gone too far now.
And it was true, he reasoned: truer than anything else was in that particular moment. Take away the masks and they're barely enemies; take away the rest of the trappings and they no longer know who they are. Only human, the Joker had said. He hadn't meant it this way, Bruce was sure of it now - but this was how he'd chosen to read it, and now they both had to suffer the consequences. At some point, the Joker had stopped kissing him and reverted back to clinging for dear life.
Bruce ignored his bloody shoulder and, at the Joker's choking whimper, held on tight.
* * *
And you're going, going, gone.
Just let him have his noble little illusion while you unravel. While your sanity's busy leaking out onto that oh-so-flat belly of his, I'm going to tell you a few more things. You set the trap, and it worked. Even if you didn't know that's what you were doing, well, it was. See, the Batman is human: he breathes, he bleeds, and he fucks. And while the latter is not exactly what he's doing here, it should certainly tell you a thing or two about what he's like when it comes down to that crucial last second of fight-or-flight, kill-or-be-killed. He'll find some halfway-point, some compromise. He won't kill you, but he won't fly without making you suffer first.
You're motionless under him now, forehead to forehead. Breathless, unwinding. And is that stubble on Batsy's fair cheek? Unseemly.
While you were busy getting yours, you missed something very important indeed: he got his, too, but it didn't register. He feels even less than you do, and that could turn out one day to be important. You take my word for it.
"Get off me." Knee to the groin, slippery as can be. "Can't fucking breathe."
Batsy's doubled up in pain, staring at you, so shocked. Your clothes are there, there, there, and there. You can spare a sock for clean-up, and maybe even drop the other one on Batsy's precious head. You're a gentleman, too, and don't let him forget it.
"Thanks," Bruce mutters, finally sitting up. Or is it the Batman? Hard to be sure.
Toss the sock in the corner; give Clivey something to really wonder about. Maybe he'll take it down to the lab in a plastic bag for them to analyze. The joke's on Batsy!
"Give me that," Bruce demands, already dressed, dashing after it like a dog after a goddamned bone. Stuffs both socks in his nice clean pockets, furious.
"I didn't know you were such a collector. Batsy. Darling."
* * *
"Take him away," spat the Joker, offering up his wrists. "He's been a bad, bad boy."
Clive snapped on the handcuffs and gestured for Anderson to get the nutcase out of there. Bruce leaned in his usual spot against the wall, waiting. The Joker glowered straight ahead, ignoring them all. Clive raised his eyebrows, but he waited until Anderson and another guard, come out of nowhere, had led the Joker away.
"Anything we should be aware of, Mr. Wayne? Your friend's lost his socks."
"I wouldn't know about that," said Bruce, shrugging. "Maybe he got hungry. Given what they serve for breakfast around here - "
"Okay, wise-ass," Clive sighed, pushing Bruce into the dimly-lit corridor. "Let's go."
"He won't want to see me for a while," Bruce said when they reached his room. "Cancel next month and keep the change."
Clive's mouth quirked in distaste, but he smoothed it out quickly and smirked.
"What did you do to him, anyway?"
Bruce stuck his hands in his pockets - he had to keep from cringing - and smiled. For a split-second, his sense of self-loathing was unbearable.
"Nothing he hasn't already done to himself."
- Continue to Part IV: Deep, Deep Water - |
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