Work Text:
It's disarmingly quiet inside the GCPD.
Bruce supposes it is around two in the morning, but even so, the police force is short on numbers and stretched far too thin to be effective.
His footfalls echo down the corridor, and he makes a conscious effort to be quieter, more subtle. His heartbeat becomes all the louder, he can feel it in his throat, in his fingertips. Ahead of him, Gordon waits beside a closed door, leaning on the frame. His brows are furrowed, lower lip worried between his teeth.
"Gordon," Bruce greets, and it's the Bat's voice that comes out.
"Batman," Gordon had obviously heard him approaching. Bruce thinks that under any other circumstances, the man would be glad to have some semblance of control in his own environment. Tonight, he just looks tired. "He's through there. The boys have got him handcuffed and under surveillance, but no one's gonna touch him after last time."
Bruce wonders which particular Last Time Gordon is referring to. The time where Joker managed to brutally strangle the officer trying to search him? Or the one where they didn't bother with it, and Joker smuggled a pocketknife in, and started a riot in Arkham?
The specifics probably don't matter.
"I'm going to need you to cut the surveillance," he pauses, looking at Gordon through the guarded eyes of the cowl. It doesn't seem as though he's going to argue, this time. "We both know I shouldn't be here on your request, but it's necessary, as you said."
"Unfortunately, yeah. Never thought I'd see the day when a vigilante is our go-to guy."
Bruce almost smiles. "Get your men out of there and I'll take care of it."
He receives a nod in return. The vigilante can't help it; he feels sorry for Gordon. He knows the man well as one Bruce Wayne, son of Gotham, and he respects him a great deal as Batman. It takes a lot of courage to accept help from an outside force, Bruce knows, but Gordon is always ready to admit when he needs it.
The commissioner ducks inside the room for a moment, says a few words to the three men inside.
Joker was, in this instance and all others, not considered one of said 'men'. You could only cause so much havoc before you became something else entirely.
"Is my knight in rubber armour here to see me?" A disconcertingly clear-spoken voice cuts through the heavy silence as Batman steps into the room. It's clean, white, dimly lit. It has a distinct hospital vibe about it, being the makeshift infirmary at the GCPD's disposal, but it's obviously been cleared of any medical utensils save for a small plastic flashlight, a handcuff key, and a box of disposable white gloves.
Bruce gives a cursory glance towards the cameras, and trusts that they are indeed being switched off.
"Nothing to say, big boy? I've really missed ya these past couple weeks," Joker drawls, looking at him from under thick eyelashes. He's tied to a chair, one of the ones that a nurse would have a patient sit in to get their shots, or have blood drawn. "Wish I could've let you in on the whole plan, but it had to be a surprise, see."
"You blew up a warehouse full of Penguin's henchmen," Bruce deadpans.
"Yep! It was kinda tricky to engineer, too. Ol' Hobblepot can be a real paranoid freak sometimes!"
Bruce slides the key towards himself from where it sits on the examining table. He pockets it, intentionally keeping his full attention on anything but the clown.
His efforts were not in vain. Joker squirms, fingers drumming against any surface he can get within toughing-range of. An irritated growl sounds from his immaculately painted lips as he finds his movement very restricted indeed. The chair is a solid, sturdy one, and Bruce is impressed with the officers' foresight.
Probably well earned from all the times Joker had used whatever he was attached to in a violent escape attempt.
"I can't imagine why," Bruce steps closer, right up to Joker, and fixes him with a sudden stare. The squirming stops.
"You've got real pretty eyes, Batsy."
Bruce clenches his jaw. He could have been home in bed already, and yet he'd agreed to this. "I'm going to search you, Joker. Do you understand?"
Joker's eyes light up like Christmas lights. "Yes, sir, Batman sir," he purrs, all red lips and white teeth and skin like polished ivory. Bruce has the embarrassing urge to punch him, muss him up a little, because Joker's come quietly tonight and excess force has decidedly not been implemented. He's not used to seeing this man look so put-together.
"I'm going to start with your gloves, before I remove the handcuffs," Bruce informs him, keeping things as professional as he can. The air crackles with the static-y tension that both men know better than they know themselves.
He leans down slightly, distinctly aware of Joker's eyes on him. And he removes the gloves, only yanking them off slightly harder than necessary. He lays both out on the arm of the chair that Joker isn't cuffed to, then goes for the key.
"Are all of Gordon's horses and all of his men to frightened to search little old me?"
Bruce unlocks the cuffs, gives Joker a moment to rub his wrists. "Stand up."
"I know it wasn't good manners to strangle that officer, but I had good reason to, genuinely," Joker attempts to inform him, sliding to his feet with the perplexing grace of a long-legged feline.
"Is that so?" Bruce moves back slightly, so that he can get a full picture of the other man. The last thing he needs is a surprise knife to the gut while he's trying to examine Joker's mouth.
"Oh yes, I mean, do you really think I'd do that sort of thing without the slightest reason? Wow, I'm hurt, Batsy."
"Remove your clothing, no sudden movements," Bruce orders, folding his arms over his chest. "And yes, I do think you'd do that, because you have, multiple times."
Joker chuckles under his breath, a sound suspiciously like a purr, and slowly draws his hands up to the top button on his shirt. He begins to undo them, never hesitating, never letting his eyes stray from Bruce himself. When he's done, he shrugs it off, and hands it to Bruce in one elegant gesture.
His torso is littered with scars, and Bruce has seen some of them before, but never with such clarity. The light in the room makes everything feel surreal, and Bruce wants to run his fingers along the Batarang-shaped scar at Joker's navel. He doesn't even remember giving him that one.
"See something you like?"
Bruce's eyes snap to Joker's green one, then his hands. They're stilled at the waistband of his slacks, and he's working on stepping out of his shoes. He's willowy and oh-so pale, and Bruce marvels at how the creature before him has fought him off so many times. He looks like you could snap him in two.
"Cut it out, Joker."
But Bruce knows better. He knows the Joker never snaps. He bends and splinters, and when all's said and done, he slides neatly back into place again.
Fingers hesitate slightly, twitching. Then Joker removes his pants, and steps out of them, revealing long legs and Bat-patterned briefs. Yellow on black, slightly faded. Obviously a favourite pair.
Bruce swallows.
For once, Joker looks mildly uncomfortable. One thumb is hooked under the elastic, and he casts a guarded glance in Bruce's direction. "They're my lucky ones," he explains.
Bruce folds the pants and places them with the shirt. The Joker is nothing but lean muscle under pallid skin, the kind of muscle that comes from fleeing and starving and fighting for life, not the kind that's built over time in air-conditioned gyms with protein shakes and a balanced diet. Bruce wonders how often Joker eats.
But then he tugs the briefs down, and Bruce's mind short-circuits for a moment, because he hasn't really prepared to be staring at a buck-naked Joker and now he is. The strangest part is that Joker seems to be going through the same experience, hands twitching at his sides, before bending at the waist to pick up his underwear and handing them, shaking just slightly, to Batman.
The carpet does in fact match the drapes.
Bruce takes a deep breath. "Okay, open your mouth for me, Joker."
"There are much sexier ways to say that, you know," Joker drawls, but there's an edge to his tone, and Bruce finds himself relating. He opens, not as wide as he probably could, and makes a loud 'ah' sound, like one would at a routine checkup with a doctor.
"Move your tongue to the roof of your mouth," Bruce knows what he's doing. He knows what he's doing but this is the Joker, The Joker, and everything with this man is an entirely new experience. Joker, for his part, does not cooperate. Instead, he pokes his tongue out at Bruce like a scorned child.
Bruce sets his jaw. He then pulls on a pair of disposable gloves, steps towards the naked man in front of him, and forcibly holds his jaw open. Joker makes a sound of frustration, but lets it happen. In fact, Bruce is almost surprised at how malleable he allows himself to become. He looks Bruce right in the eye as he feels about behind his teeth and under his tongue, only trying to bite him once. It's a valiant effort.
There's something slightly intoxicating about being so close to Joker in his vulnerable state, his rawest. His pupils are blown, black overtaking green, and there's something quietly challenging in that gaze that sets Bruce's skin alight at every point of contact.
He moves to the next stage, forgoing the traditional - and correct - procedure, and taking matters into his own hands. Joker can waste his own time, but Bruce is starting to feel as though he should leave as soon as he can. He runs his fingers through Joker's hair, feeling product and salt and heat, but no sign of any contraband. The same goes for behind his ears; Joker suppresses a shudder when Bruce checks there.
Bruce makes a note of this.
He stands back a little, looks for any notable incisions in Joker's skin, but it's hard because he's covered in scars and fresh bruises and Bruce is sure that if the man wanted to go so far as to cut himself open to stash something away, there would be nothing they could do about it.
It's relatively silent. Bruce pauses after patting down Joker's sides, feels the goosebumps on his skin, tries to ignore the heat in his gut that flares up every time Joker's breath hitches.
He then forgoes formality entirely to save his own skin, and prays to whoever may have been listening that Joker would go along with it. "Can you give me your word that you haven't stashed anything elsewhere?"
There's a long moment in which Joker looks him in the eye, leans slightly closer. He doesn't say anything, seems to be weighing up his options. Bruce thinks things might go to plan, but then he happens to glance down, and he sees that somehow, Joker is slightly erect, and he recalls all the shudders and goosebumps and blown pupils, and he knows what answer he's going to get.
He knows how this is going to go.
"No, I can't give you my word," Joker breathes, and his voice is slightly husky, and he's looking at Bruce with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
With Joker, nothing is simple. With Joker, things always stray from their intended course. With Joker, Bruce has found, doing things by the book can be as ineffective as it is tedious.
And that gleam in his eyes? It's the one he sees when he punches Joker in the face, when blood sprays from his nose and he laughs because everything's funny when you're a homicidal clown. It's lust, and violence, and something stable and rational in Bruce suddenly breaks.
This thing, this stable and rational thing, is what holds back the dam inside his mind.
Joker seems to sense this, and his eyes narrow, he takes on an expectant kind of tensity. What he gets is apparently not what he was looking for.
Bruce knees him in the groin with absolutely no remorse, and Joker's wail falls on deaf ears. "Fuck, Bats!"
Maybe it's more of a whine.
He lets Joker sink to his knees, fists a handful of his hair to keep him in place, to make sure he doesn't slither away and come back fighting. Joker's cursing, holding the offending area and looking up at Batman with a miserable smile on his lips.
He's impressed.
Bruce tugs hard on his hair, pulling Joker to his feet once more, watching him stumble slightly, and then shoving him back into the seat they'd started this in.
There's a moment there, as Bruce descends on the man once more, that he catches what he's sure is a spark of anxiety in those green eyes, and if anything it spurs him on. Not that he needs the encouragement.
Joker sprawls against the back of the chair, squirming, and Bruce stops directly in front of him and kicks the clown's legs apart. He refuses to make eye contact as he gives a rough tug on Joker's cock, makes the other man shout.
Bruce squeezes, rubs his thumb absentmindedly over the head, once, twice. He's suddenly very, very hard, and he's quivering slightly. Under his breath, Bruce can hear the soft mutters of a man who clearly thinks he's died and gone to heaven. It should be sickening, but there's something truly and genuinely intoxicating about being wanted so much, so obviously, that it doesn't matter who it is he's touching like this.
Joker's hips buck forward and he groans deep in his throat while Bruce cups his balls, feels for something, anything that Joker might be trying to smuggle into Arkham. He wants to find something, because it would give this - what's he's doing to Joker - some sort of logical meaning.
But he knows, deep down, that he isn't going to find anything. Because Joker only did this to wind him up, and now he's getting more than he bargained for. His eyes are glazed over, his head is craned forward and trying to watch what Bruce is doing, and one of his firm red lips is being viciously bitten into as he tries to adjust to the sensations. He's sensitive, incredibly sensitive, it's obvious in the way he shudders when Bruce nudges his thigh and the long breath he lets out when his balls are released.
And Bruce realises, after a moment, that he's trying not to be loud, trying not to say anything stupid. He doesn't know what Joker's like in bed, of course, but he knows this man would be vocal if given the opportunity. Currently, he's straining not to scare Bruce off, and it shows.
Maybe it's unthinking, maybe he's been meaning to do it this whole time, but Bruce finds himself pressing a finger against Joker's entrance. This is par for the course, with a criminal as dangerous as Joker being taken into custody, especially considering his past conduct - who knew what lengths this man would go to just to give himself an advantage when he gets to Arkham. What is decidedly not par for the course, is breaching the tight ring of muscle without warning, sliding his finger in to the knuckle, and listening with admitted delight to his nemesis' protests.
"Oh shit, f-" Joker cuts himself off, sliding down in the chair, and Bruce nearly groans when those pale thighs spread for him on instinct. Joker looks horrified, and he tries to shift back, but Bruce is pushing another finger in and suddenly Joker's squirming backfires tremendously. Bruce makes contact with his prostate before really registering it, and Joker goes tense. His back arches, and a sound like a hiss leaves his lips.
"God, Batman!"
The words go straight to Bruce's cock. His next action is probably the most unprofessional thing he's ever done. And he is Batman, so that's saying a lot.
He drags the gloved pad of his finger across that tight bundle of nerves, and he rubs focused, demanding circles into it.
There is absolutely no way, he knows, that this can be construed as a routine cavity search. Everything else? He could have gotten away with that. He could have convinced himself, and Joker, that he would have done the same with any dangerous criminal he happened to searching.
Joker fucking himself on Bruce's fingers? That was going to be a tough one to explain.
"Fuck yes! So good ohholyfuck Batsy! "
A sensible man would have stopped. A heterosexual man would have stopped. Bruce shifts the position of his wrist, adds a third finger. Joker is drawn tight as a bowstring, back arched beautifully, head twisted to the side with his throat on full display. His legs are spread, wanton and whorish and absolutely lost in the moment; it's the most erotic thing Bruce's ever seen, and he growls low and harsh in his throat.
The Joker responds with a high-pitched whine, hips grinding into the fingers that open him up, needy for the way Batman touches him and strokes his insides. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his skin, his eyes are closed, and he's trying to prop himself up better to get more friction against his prostate.
Bruce obliges, curls his fingers into him and watches Joker writhe and twitch. His cock spasms, and Joker's eyes snap open and suddenly his whole body is jolting and he's shouting, shouting curses and Bruce's name and desperate pleas of please don't stop, and Bruce works him through it, massaging his sweet spot until Joker's breathlessly trying to get away again, over-sensitised and aching.
It takes Bruce a moment, but he moves back, sitting on the floor with his head leaning against the medical table, and Joker's too out of it to be aware of much at all. He removes the rubber glove, wishing for an obscene moment than he'd been able to feel the villain's velvety insides without the barrier between them. It's a thought he'll have to dissect later.
Bruce's blood still pushes through him at ridiculous levels, quick and frantic and too hot to bear. He has to get out of here.
And he's going to, he would, but he looks back at the chair as he stands up and sees the mess he's left. Sees Joker, shivering and vulnerable and conflicted enough to look worried in his blissed-out state. Bruce is almost surprised; part of him had expected the man to be boastful and triumphant that he'd finally got the back to address - to some extent - the sexual tension between them. Instead, he looks like a human, a man; open, thoughtful and maybe Bruce is projecting, but he genuinely looks lonely.
So Bruce gathers the clown's clothes, and he helps Joker sit up enough to put on a shirt and clean the mess from his front. Neither of them say a word. He helps Joker to stand, gently supports him while he puts his pants and socks back on. His hair is still a mess, tangled and sweaty and in need of attention.
Green eyes follow him as he moves towards the door. Bruce meets them, feels an alarming tug of longing, to stay by the side of this broken creature and to help him. It's familiar, if not distorted by recent events.
"Do I get a kiss goodbye?" Joker's voice is hoarse and shaky. He sounds genuine. Bruce allows a small smile.
"Maybe next time," he murmurs, running a tongue along his bottom lip, feeling oddly lighter than when he came in. "Don't cause any trouble in Arkham, Joker. I mean it."
"You always mean it."
"And you never listen," Bruce responds, with a barely audible sigh. "Goodbye, Joker."
"Goodbye, darling."
The hall is empty as he exits, predictably, but just as he closes the door that will inevitably separate the two of them, he's sure he hears that familiar voice whisper, under it's breath, "I think I'm in love."