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Bruce clenches his fist and unclenches it again, watching dispassionately as his bruised knuckles shift. They’re not healed yet. There’s still some pain there, but it’s little more than a dull ache, negligible and nowhere near enough to temper the insectoid buzzing that simmers under his skin like a swarm of locusts. It is a familiar, nameless anger; a red haze that clouds his mind with the desire to hit and bruise and make sure it hurts. There is a rage inside of him and his fists itch for him to do something about it. Tonight, then.
He takes out the motorbike as the last dregs of sun sink below the Gotham skyline. Alfred looks at him with reproach as he leaves, bitten back words lingering on his tongue. Bruce does not tell him where he is going; even without the specifics he is sure that the bruises he returns with are indicative enough. Instead he packs his things in silence, face stony and withdrawn. Alfred does not say anything either but the weight of unspoken words hangs heavy in the air between them. Bruce turns away from him and tries not to feel guilty about it. They have had this argument before time and time again and nothing good has ever come of it. There is nothing more that he wishes to say to him.
He speeds down the highway as dusk settles across the city. The thrum of the engine reverberates through his bones as the tyres slide slick against the asphalt, urging him onwards. As he reaches the outskirts of the city, the speed dial ticks upwards notch by notch until the trees and signs and hedges that he passes are just blotches of abstract colour, a child’s impression of the world scrawled out in crayon. All feels different in the low light, still and quiet, yes, but cut with an undercurrent of electricity that promises that the night is still young and vital and bright eyed.
Still he pushes onwards as the wind whips back his hair, the chill of the night harsh and cold against his skin. The faster he goes, the harder it begins to tug at the corners of his eyes, not relenting until beads of moisture sting his vision. His eyesight blurs, distorted, but still he refuses to blink. Instead he pushes harder, goes faster, a streak of black against the harsh yellow of the streetlights that flank the quiet highway.
It’s stupid and reckless and he’s not wearing a helmet, but internally he feels as though he is flying. He thinks sometimes of how freeing it must be to be a bird soaring over the Gotham skyline, gliding between the rooftops with only its wings to keep it airborne. There is a moment when a bird must leap, a second of free fall before it spreads its wings and is carried on the breeze. It is only a moment, but that split second, that instant of fear, the danger and the thrill of it; this is the high that he chases. He may never be able to experience what the birds do, but he thinks that this must come close.
His body sings with it, exalting, shaped by the wind into something that feels bigger than the sum of his parts. He still has his anger, the skin deep grief that never really seems to leave him, but right now it is secondary to the clear, bright adrenaline that pushes him towards clarity. Like the lens of a camera, it twists until the picture comes into focus, his thoughts in high definition. Everything sharpens and suddenly he can think and feel and breathe without the heavy weight of sorrow. He finds that his lips pull themselves into a breathless smile on their own accord, grinning out into the darkness in a moment of victory clawed from the unkind world.
It is over too soon, of course, gone mere seconds after he grasps it. He resists the urge to chase the feeling, to keep twisting the throttle for just a second longer, just a little more, and lets himself slow to the legal speed. He blinks moisture from his eyes and murky shadows bloom again into real things around him. He feels strange, like he’s floating, flat and intangible while everything else is three dimensional.
He takes the next left off of the highway almost robotically, following the familiar landscape. The route is second nature to him now, the destination long since hardened and tempered into a habit. Tension thrums in him again the closer he gets, solidifying as the roads get smaller and more uneven, petering out into alley ways. The anticipation cuts him sharper than a knife.
***
He ditches the bike when he gets closer, leaves it somewhere hidden so that he won’t have to worry about it getting stolen. Around here, everyone knows who it belongs to, but some of the street kids are cocky enough (or desperate enough) to try it anyway and Bruce thinks that if he starts breaking heads, there’s a good chance he won’t be able to stop.
Not when the anger is still simmering through him, making a home in his veins. It won’t be long now, he promises himself. Just a few more streets, past the blinding lights and into the ring, and he will finally be able to hit something that can hit back.
The ‘ring’ is really too grand of a word for the patch of concrete and wire mesh that serves as the local underground fighting scene. Colloquially, it’s known as the pit, but even that confers onto it a sense of gravitas that it hasn’t really earnt. It’s a dimly lit square of shitty asphalt out the back of an equally dim and seedy bar on a dim and shady street, but to Bruce it’s come to be something of a second home.
It isn’t long before he’s outside, staring up at the building’s peeling facade.
It’s loud when he enters, loud enough to make the lull noticeable when he walks into the room. He can feel the eyes on him, momentarily interested before they skitter away again, satisfied that he’s not a newcomer.
By now, everyone recognises him here; it is a long time since he first wandered in as a young but cocksure teenager ready to make a name for himself. He got the shit kicked out of him, of course. But he’s come a long way since then and he no longer has anything to prove. Now it’s just a bar full of people that he’s come to know, some of which he might even consider friends. On a better day, he might even be pleased to see them.
Around him, the air buzzes, a combination of chatter and the hum of the dim lights. “Bruce,” someone says, and he turns to see the hulking figure of Croc crammed into one of the booths, raising a hand in greeting. He’s sat with a couple of the others (Bane, Grundy) and he’s picking at a plate of something which looks suspiciously like raw meat.
“Croc,” Bruce acknowledges, sending a nod in his direction. He wouldn’t say they’re close; they never have much more to say to each other than polite small talk and nods of appreciation, but he respects him. Out of the three of them, he’s the one that goes up against him on occasion, Bane having been disqualified (caught dosing himself before a match) and Grundy mostly being there to watch. Tonight though, Bruce has someone else in mind.
He’s distracted as a sharp voice cuts loudly across the room, a sort of whining nasal that he can associate with Eddie without even seeing him. He sits at the bar annunciating some point or other with flourishes of his hands while Oswald, a captive audience, polishes glasses and listens intently. Riddler, they call him. He’s smart and sharp as a knife, knows his way around numbers better than anyone else in this hellhole. He’s good with the betting books, but is even better at lying to the police about how they make their money. Even in spite of all of his usefulness, Bruce wishes that they would hire someone who was less of a supercilious bastard. As he approaches, Eddie turns to face him, expression souring into disdain. “Oh, hello Bruce,” he says flatly. His tone is far from conversational but that suits Bruce just fine. He’s not here to talk anyway. He grunts in acknowledgement and turns instead to Oswald, who has had the foresight to prepare Bruce’s usual. He downs it in one, relishing the way that it burns in the back of his throat.
As he sets the glass down on the bartop, he finds that Selina has appeared in the space at his elbow.
“Bruce,” she demurs. A smirk plays across her lips, “I was starting to wonder where you’d got to.”
”Cat,” he says flatly. She’s flirting, he can tell, voice low and sultry as she shifts in her tight black dress, but tonight he doesn’t really feel like playing her games. Not when he’s this keyed up; not when the promise of blood over his knuckles is too alluring to ignore.
”I’ve missed you,” she presses, and Bruce clenches his fist where it sits by his side and reminds himself that Selina is good company. And he does mean it. He just doesn’t need this now.
He digs a noise up from the back of his throat that might be agreement as he glances around, craning his head to see if he can spot the telltale flash of green. It shouldn’t be hard to miss. If he’s here.
She’s saying something else, running a delicate hand up his bicep, but Bruce cannot take it anymore. Under his skin, the buzzing reaches a crescendo.
“Is he here?” he asks abruptly, cutting her off and turning to aim the question at the bar.
Selina makes a face and sighs. “I don’t know why I bother,” she says, turning to Eddie, who lets out a derisive snort and suddenly becomes very absorbed in whatever he is reading. “Always the sourpuss,” she adds, this time at Bruce, but she doesn’t sound too put out about it. She knows how he can get.
”Boys,” she mutters and then she’s stalking off through the crowd. Bruce watches her go.
”Ever the smooth talker,” Eddie jibes. Bruce pretends not to hear the huff of laughter that Oswald tries and fails to disguise as a cough.
Instead, he glances between the two of them. “Well, is he?” he presses again and tries not to let annoyance seep into his tone. He needs the answer to be yes.
”Is dihydrogen monoxide wet?”
”Speak plainly for once in your life,” Bruce snaps. He can’t quite stop the sharpness that underlies the words and this time he doesn’t care to.
Eddie sighs. “And here I thought I was.”
“Eddie.” It comes out like a warning.
”Of course he’s here. He’s out the back if you’d care to look for him.”
And that’s all that Bruce needs to know. He grunts his thanks at Eddie and then he’s moving away from the bar, leaving them behind to continue whatever inane conversation they were having before he arrived.
***
The air out back is cold compared to the warmth of the bar, but Bruce hardly feels it. Anticipation keeps his blood pumping, keeps him keyed up as he scans the faces standing around the edges of the pit.
He can’t see him anywhere and he’s starting to think that Eddie has sent him out here just to fuck with him, when he hears a voice behind him.
”Looking for someone?” it asks, sly and lilting. When he turns, he’s met with a shock of green hair and a face pale enough that it almost seems to glow in the exterior lights.
Joker. It’s concerning, the way that he’s come to feel relief at the sight of him.
He grins at Bruce, lips stretched wide in a strange, garish smile that gleams dark red. It’s a new lipstick, one that Bruce hasn’t seen before, a little darker than the usual shade but no less striking.
Perhaps it’s not just relief that he’s feeling.
Joker’s eyes glint with glitter and anticipation, like he’s playing with a powder keg and is just waiting to see how long it takes before it goes off. And with how pent up Bruce is feeling, he can tell that their fight will be nothing short of explosive.
”No one in particular,” he replies, a lie he’s told so often that it’s almost second nature. It’s been long enough now that neither of them really believe it. Still, he lets it leave his mouth anyway.
Joker narrows his eyes, “What a coincidence, I was looking for no one in particular as well.”
“Lucky me.” The proximity is starting to do something strange to Bruce’s insides. He glances over at the pit, impatient, but the fights haven’t even started yet.
“Croc’s on in half an hour,” Joker supplies, as though he hears the unspoken question implicit in Bruce’s gaze.
“With?”
At that, Joker just shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. He’s not the one I’m here to see.” His eyes feel like they might burn through Bruce’s skin, stark in their intensity.
He’s wearing a leather jacket tonight; one of Bruce’s, large enough on his small frame that it’s started to droop off of his shoulders. And that’s doing something to Bruce’s insides as well.
Bruce’s throat is suddenly dry. “I’d better tell Jon we’re up tonight.” He doesn’t remember it being this hard to breathe around Joker.
He turns as if to leave, but Joker hums in discontent. “Johnny boy is clever, I’m sure he can figure it out by himself.” His fingers splay out across Bruce’s face, cupping at his jaw, “besides, we’ve got some catching up to do.” His grin is all teeth.
Bruce’s hand comes up to grip at his wrist before he can stop himself. “Don’t touch me,” he hisses. He glances around them, but nobody seems to be paying them much attention.
“Brucie, Brucie, Brucie,” Joker sing-songs, “always such a prude.” He manages to give Bruce’s face one last pat before he pulls away, then he’s skipping off, disappearing back into the bar. His later, darling is muffled by the sound of the door thudding closed behind him.
It’s only once he’s out of view that Bruce lets himself breathe again. His conversations with Joker all tend to happen in the same vein; with very little actually being said and Bruce becoming angrier by the end than when they started talking. It doesn’t seem to matter though. There’s something magnetic about Joker, something that always seems to pull the two of them back to each other.
Bruce doesn’t think that he’s ever been very good with words, but when it comes to their fights, they are both fluent in the language of violence. In this (if nothing else), they understand each other. With the others he finds that he has to pull his punches, but with Joker? Not only can he take the pain, he seems to genuinely want the violence of it, the parts of Bruce that almost a decade of therapy haven’t managed to fix.
That, more than anything, is what keeps him coming back.
The others think that the thing simmering between the two of them is hatred, but Bruce knows differently. And if he’s reading Joker right, then he knows differently as well.
***
When he enters the pit, impatience claws low in his gut. The harsh lights pulse in front of his eyes, leaving bright spots across his vision. Through the haze he can see the others watching through the wire mesh of the fence, some talking, some just waiting. It seems like the anticipation is getting to them as well.
It feels like an eternity before Joker appears. Eventually, he flounces out into the ring, turning to wave at the crowd as Harv ushers him forward to the patch of ground opposite Bruce.
Then Harv is announcing the match, running the countdown, but Bruce isn’t really registering any of that. In front of him, Joker makes a show of stretching out his limbs and Bruce’s eyes keep coming back to the stretch of skin that runs from his collarbone up to his jaw. The lights seem to blur everything else out, turning the onlookers into patches of shadow that verge into something make-believe, turning Joker into the only thing that’s real.
Bruce can’t look away. He wants to kiss him. He wants to bleed him into the dirt and see the faces he makes as the pain spurs him on. He’s not laughing yet, but it echoes around Bruce’s head as clear as a bell, the impression of so many of their fights before.
By now, it’s ever so familiar.
There’s a rhythm to their fights. It starts with a push and pull; with a taunt and a grin wide enough to make Bruce see red.
“Come on, Brucie, what are you waiting for?” Joker calls, and then the fight begins for real.
Bruce is stronger but Joker’s faster, weaving away from Bruce’s punches with the grace of a dancer. The harsh crash of metal resounds around the air as Bruce’s fist collides with the space where Joker is no longer standing and the wire mesh behind it.
Bruce grunts in pain and turns to swing again.
Joker’s laughter is cruel. “Missed me,” he cackles, ducking under Bruce’s arm and delivering a nasty jab to Bruce’s side in the process. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”
And so Bruce does. This time he waits, keeping his guard up, and is rewarded with a hiss as his fist collides with Joker’s body. “How’s that?” he asks, but he knows the answer already; this is exactly what Joker wants.
It’s what he’s been needing too. He has so much anger, constant and unyielding, but here it’s finally starting to feel like he’s doing something with it as his knuckles meet with solid mass. He can hear the jeers and shouts around them but they’re muffled, caught under the same spell as everything else. All he can feel is the adrenaline setting his pulse alight under his skin and the beautiful burn of muscle as he moves.
Then the ache gives way to instinct, guiding him blindly through punches and feints and blocks. He is triumphant at the feeling of his knuckles meeting flesh, barely registering the pain that blossoms across his own skin. Joker fights like a dog, all rabid jaws and teeth, dancing away with a speed that is almost inhuman. His laughter cuts through the air like a knife.
It isn’t long before Bruce loses himself in the feeling, relishing the tang of blood that filters across his senses. God, he needs this. It’s heady, powerful, and he hits harder, feels skin split as his fist makes contact. Joker’s still laughing, ragged noises that are dragged from his throat between breaths and the sound seems to reverberate around Bruce’s skull, rattling over his hollow bones. He can see the blood, now, dripping down Joker’s split lip, down his chin, and he wants to feel it, taste it, press his lips against the wound and bite down harder. He wants to kiss him and he wants to wrap his hands around his throat but instead he clenches his knuckles and swings his fist again, hits harder, opening his mouth to loose his rage in a burst of noise. He loses himself, then, and is dimly aware of Joker falling, the two of them grappling in the dirt, before he comes back to himself to find that he is being pulled away.
“That’s enough, Bruce,” someone is saying, gripping his arm, pulling him away from the Joker.
“No,” he says, struggling against the intrusion. “No,” he repeats, when the insistent hands do not listen. “It isn’t over yet.” Don’t they understand? He needs this, and the bastard is still smiling, still grinning through bloodied teeth and a mangled smile, and Bruce isn’t done.
“Come on, he’s had enough,” someone else says, and there is more pressure, someone else touching him, forcing him to let go. He’s not done until I say he’s done, he wants to shout. His raw knuckles still beg for contact, bone straining under split skin. He resists for a moment, a split second eternity where he thinks that he is going to start throwing punches again and damn the consequences, but eventually he relinquishes his grip, loosening his hands from where they were curled deep into the folds of Joker’s shirt. It takes all of his willpower not to push away the hands that are gripping at his arms, to chase the feeling of euphoria that he was so close to reaching, but instead he lets himself be tugged to his feet.
He stands, breathing hard as the world around him slowly comes back into focus. The two enforcers remain next to him; half steadying him, half restraining him as though they don’t trust him not to break free the second he gets the chance. Hell, Bruce isn’t quite sure that he trusts himself just yet.
Joker stretches, wincing as he hauls himself up from the ground. Bruce registers a flash of blonde and then Harley is next to him, face a mask of worry as she helps him get to his feet. She shoots Bruce a look that is somewhere between anger and resentment, then dabs ineffectually at some of the blood that cakes Joker’s face. All she manages to do is smear it further across his chin. Bruce feels a sudden, inexplicable anger at the sight, a possessiveness that he can’t really put a name to. Can’t she just leave him alone?
Joker seems to feel the same, waving away her attempts at help. Instead, he limps over to Bruce. He’s holding back a noise of pain as he walks, but his expression tips into a grin as he comes closer, eyes alight and sparkling.
“Well, well,” he says, “is that all that you’ve got? Don’t tell me you’re going soft, Brucie?” It’s obvious bait, like a child poking a stick at a dog to make him bite, but Bruce is still keyed up from the fight. He lunges at the bastard, (maybe this time he will hit him and he’ll shut up), but Joker takes a neat step back and Bruce’s hands meet empty air. How he can still move so fast Bruce will never know. The two enforcers, who had moved back to give him space, look over again in alarm, ready to intervene. Joker waves them away with a dismissive gesture.
”It’s fine,” he insists, then turns his attention back to Bruce, leaning in close to his ear. “Atta boy,” he drawls. He says it slow and syrupy, the kind of tone someone uses when they talk to an animal. Bruce focuses on clenching his fists open and closed. He hates the way that Joker is so easily able to get under his skin.
“You’re lucky they stopped me,” he grinds out and tries not to think about the way that what he says only seems to make that grin widen.
“Ah, come now, the night is still young. We’ve still got plenty of time to dance the night away.” His tone of voice suggests that he wants to do far more than just dance.
“Come and find me,” Bruce whispers, low. Too low for any of the others to hear, or so he hopes.
“You know I will.” The quiet words are a promise sealed.
Joker turns to walk away. “Kiss, kiss, darling,” he calls, blowing an exaggerated kiss out in Bruce’s general direction.
As Bruce watches him leave, the anticipation begins to thrum again, a constant blink, blink pulsing just below the skin.
***
The aftermath of the fight is… unpleasant.
”Look Bruce, I don’t like him any more than you do, but there are rules, okay — someone could’ve been seriously hurt,” Harv says to him, suddenly serious.
He’s had far worse, Bruce wants to argue, but is smart enough to keep the thought inside of his head. Joker’s given him far worse too, if the knife scars littering Bruce’s torso are any indication, but the others are none the wiser about their unregulated follow ups and he’s not about to tell them. Even the thought of them knowing sends a stab of something green twisting through his gut; they’re his, nobody else’s.
And besides, telling them would hardly help his case. He’s trying to convince them that the events of this evening were an aberration, a stress induced mistake that will never happen again. That much is certainly a lie, but he does feel a stab of guilt thinking about it all.
Not for hurting Joker; the smug bastard is probably off gloating somewhere that he managed to make Bruce snap in front of the others, but guilt over his own lack of self control. Usually he’s able to hold the full brunt of his anger back until they’re away from prying eyes. He’s better than this, he has to be, but now Cat is looking at him with wide, pained eyes that say that she doesn’t know who he is anymore and that hurts more than the new bruises that are forming across his body.
Even Harv seems troubled, shooting Bruce concerned glances from across the room. Next to him, Harley sits with her arms crossed sullenly across her chest. She’s foregone the concern in lieu of shooting daggers at him, but Bruce isn’t bothered; he’d expected it. It’s the others that he’s concerned about.
“I know,” he gets out, and he can’t quite get the sullen edge out from under the words.
Jonathan, the club’s de facto owner, has largely been listening in on the conversation so far with a grave face. When he finally opens his mouth, his words are measured and careful, “I concur. The rules are there not only to protect individuals but to protect the club from unwanted police attention. The situation tonight was in hand but-“
”He could’a killed him!” a new voice bursts in. New, but predictable. As she starts speaking, Harley springs up from her chair, incensed. Ivy reaches out a hand to stop her but Harley just waves her away, too angry to be pulled back into passivity. “You’re talkin’ about rules an’ regulations an’ all of that like it’s all that’s important — what about Mister J? He could’a been hurt real bad an’ none of ya do anything but watch when he gets beaten bloody just because ya don’t like him!” By the end of it she’s shouting, face scrunched up like she’s about to cry as she points a finger at Bruce.
”It ain’t right,” she says and that seems to be the moment that the dam bursts as tears begin to well and spill over her cheeks. She sags and Ivy comes to her rescue, rubbing a soothing hand up her arm as she leads Harley back to her seat.
The display leaves everyone in something of a stunned silence until Jonathan starts speaking again.
”Rest assured,” he begins, “I have taken all of it into consideration. It is with that in mind that I would like to suggest that Bruce take some time away from the running. Say a period of two or three weeks to reflect on his behaviour tonight.”
”But-“ Bruce starts.
Harv gives him a placatory look. “Don’t try and fight this one, Bruce, it’s for the best.”
Privately, Bruce wonders who gave Harvey a say, but he has the grace to nod and promises to the group that he will watch himself in future.
The conversation gets easier after that. Jonathan disappears back into his office and takes with him the lump that had been forming in Bruce’s throat. Some of the onlookers dissipate, deciding that the show is over. Harley flounces off with Ivy in her wake, both of them giving Bruce looks cold enough to freeze over hell. Ivy’s glare looked especially fierce — she’ll have it out for him for making Harley cry.
Bruce turns back to the others. They’re all looking at him, but none of them seem able to meet his eyes.
“Well,” Eddie starts. His lip twitches like he’s holding back a smirk, like he finds the whole thing funny, the kind of look that makes Bruce want to smash his teeth in and damn the consequences. It’s too much like a different smile, too much like him. It’s stupid to rise to it, but Bruce has been holding his tongue for too long.
”If you’re just here to gloat then you can fuck off,” he says, glaring hard at Eddie. “And the rest of you,” he adds, looking around at the worried faces. Their concern is starting to grate on him, sickly sweet as it is.
Eddie sniffs. “How charming, spoken like a true lout. And here I thought you were going to reflect on your aggressive demeanour.”
Bruce steps towards him, is going to… he doesn’t know what, because Harv gets in the way pressing a hand to his chest to stop him before he can do anything.
”Bruce,” he says warningly. His tone is firm but his eyes are pleading. Bruce stills, and Harv turns to Eddie, “I think you should go.”
There’s a bad moment where it looks like Eddie is going to keep pushing and Bruce has about decided that he’s going to hit him if he does, Harv or no Harv in his way, when Eddie finally makes the smart call and steps away.
“Come on, Cobblepot,” he sniffs derisively and then he and his obnoxious voice are finally out of Bruce’s range of hearing.
“Everyone else too, please; Bruce needs some space,” Harv continues. Bruce should be angry that Harv is speaking for him, trying to guess at how he feels, but he’s just glad that everyone has stopped looking at him. Their eyes were starting to drown him.
Finally it’s just Selina and Harvey left.
He can feel Harv’s lecture coming on before it starts, so he shuts it down before it can really begin.
“Look, Bruce-“
“I’m fine,” he grits out, harshly. And it’s true, or it would be if Harv wasn’t talking to him like he’s a child in need of scolding. He doesn’t want to talk about it.
“You know you can talk to me,” Harv says, painfully sincere, and Selina nods encouragingly. It’s odd, how quiet she’s being. Bruce has hardly heard her say anything since the beginning of the meeting.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Bruce.” This time it’s Selina who cuts in, worry dragging at her delicate features. “I think it’s important, okay?”
”Oh, so now you want to talk?” It spills out in a rush, an anger that he didn’t realise he had been holding. He knows it’s misplaced but he can’t quite let go of her earlier silence. He wasn't expecting her to defend him, but she could’ve said something.
“We’re just worried about you,” she says softly, “we want to help.”
Bruce huffs out a laugh. “You were a lot of help back there.”
“That’s not fair, Bruce,” Harv cuts in, and the harshness is back in his eyes, bordering on anger.
“You could’ve said something.”
Selina drags a hand along her arm, thumb worrying against her skin. She’s still not really looking at him. For a moment she’s silent, but then whatever has been simmering beneath the surface seems to come out in a rush.
“I didn’t know what to say, okay?”
“You could’ve said something,” Bruce reiterates. It’s starting to annoy him, the way that her eyes keep skirting around his, grazing the edges of his face and then flitting away. You could’ve defended me. You could’ve done anything.
“Look, Bruce, you didn’t see what we saw out there. I saw you after that fight and it was like you were a different person. Just, you looked so angry, and he was down and you kept on hitting him and hitting him over and over; they had to drag you off of him for God’s sake!” She drags her arm more tightly around herself. “That’s not normal, Bruce. It’s not healthy, you and him and whatever fucked up rivalry you’ve got going on.”
The weight of it hits him like a freight train. “Selina,” he starts, trailing off when he finds that he doesn’t know what to say. What can he even tell her? That she doesn’t understand? That it isn’t what she thinks it is?
Finally, she looks at him. “Why do you even hate him so much?” she asks, and isn’t that just the question?
“I don’t hate him.”
She scoffs at that, sharp and bitter. “I thought we were past lying to each other.”
He doesn’t know how to explain to her that it isn’t a lie, not this time. Their old wounds are too raw for her to believe him.
“I can’t with you,” she says, but in the end it’s Bruce who turns away and walks out the door.
***
He goes out to get some air but the walk does little to clear his head. Instead, the conversation plays over and over in his mind, his own poor excuses wilting beneath the resigned anger in Selina’s eyes.
Standing over Joker, blood coating his knuckles, he’d felt the furthest thing from wrong. He’d felt weightless, part of something bigger than himself, but it’s hard to square that image with the picture that Selina had been painting.
Because he hadn’t been out of control, had he? It hadn’t felt that way. But Joker had been there, a familiar face with familiar taunts that said he wanted the worst that Bruce could give him, and Bruce had let himself sink too far into the well of anger that lived deep in his bones.
Maybe it should worry him, the things that Joker is able to bring to the surface. But deep down he knows that Selina’s wrong; it isn’t that he’s different. Maybe it’s just that she’s never really known him at all.
He finds Joker slouched against the wall waiting when he comes back for the bike. It doesn’t matter where he leaves it or how well he hides it; Joker just always seems to know where to find it.
For a moment Bruce stays standing in the shadows just to watch him. He’s looking down, green curls falling over his face. He’s cleaned himself up since the fight, although there’s little he can do about the stains of blood that mar his shirt. He twirls something sleek and silver between his fingers, brow furrowing slightly in concentration.
“Are you going to lurk in the shadows all night or are you going to come out and play?” he says without looking up.
Sheepishly, Bruce comes forward. He’d thought he was getting better at being stealthy. As Bruce gets closer, Joker’s eyes meet his but his hands never stop moving, weaving the knife round and round in a glinting blur.
“You took your sweet time,” he notes and Bruce sighs.
”I had to smooth things over,” he offers. Joker lets out a half laugh at that, clearly taken with the idea of Bruce trying to enact any kind of diplomacy.
“Oh, I’ll just bet you did. And how did that work out for you?”
His jaw clenches. ”Not well.”
”Did they talk about me? I could feel my ears burning from allll the way over here.”
“They wanted to know why I hate you so much.” That one pulls a proper laugh out of Joker, high and grating. His head tips back from the weight of it, body collapsing against the brickwork of the wall.
“It isn’t that funny,” Bruce grouses, but there’s little heat to it.
“I beg to differ,” Joker says once he’s managed to compose himself. “And what did you tell them?”
”I said I didn’t,” Bruce admits.
”Liar,” Joker bites back, but it’s true, he doesn’t.
He might have, once, when Joker had first walked up to him and started getting in his face, pushing at him until he found out what made him tick. He might have in those first few weeks when Joker had goaded and teased and taunted, pushing him into the ring only to get back up and laugh in his face every time Bruce thought he had won. There might have been something like hatred then, but now it’s long gone.
The intensity of the feeling remains and some of the anger lingers, but it’s been a long time since he has looked at Joker and felt that nameless, uncontrolled loathing. Joker still gets under his skin in a way that nobody else can, but it’s no longer just rage that heats his gaze, that has him looking at Joker with that nameless intensity.
And now he thinks that he might finally be done with pretending.
Joker looks at him, eyes alight. “Dont tell me they were actually worried about little old me? That’s precious,” he coos.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Bruce lies. It would only fuel the bastard’s ego if he knew that even Selina had managed to dredge up some sympathy for him.
“Hmm,” Joker pouts in disappointment. “Well, you did leave me with some rather nice bruises, darling. Poor Harley seemed awfully concerned,” he remarks, as though challenging Bruce to disagree. “She was the one who had to kiss it better, after all.”
He grins as Bruce’s expression sours at the mention of the word Harley. “She’s very angry with you, by the way. She thinks that you went too far, that it’s just not right, everyone letting you bully her poor, defenseless puddin’.” By the end of the sentence he’s slipped into a typical Brooklyn accent, eyes widening as he lets his voice tip into something more feminine.
Bruce sighs. “I got that impression.”
“Did she say something to you?” Joker’s eyes narrow with a sudden interest.
Bruce thinks that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.
“You shouldn’t lead her on,” he grouses instead, changing tack. He’s beginning to grow tired of Harley’s interference but he’s fairly certain he can guess why it is that she’s gained such a sudden sympathy for Joker. He wonders if he told her the story about the abusive father or the one about the failed comedian, or any number of his other stories that only seem to come out on special occasions.
“Me? Lead her on? Why, Brucie, I’m offended; I’ve been nothing but the perfect gentleman.” If Joker can tell he’s deflecting, he doesn’t let on.
”You told her some sob story, no doubt.”
”I might have mentioned something or other,” he says, low and conspiratorial.
”Oh? And what exactly did you tell her?” Bruce pushes.
For once, Joker seems reticent. Bruce just looks at him pointedly, eyes narrowing until Joker cracks. Or more likely, until Joker decides that it will be funnier to tell Bruce than to keep it from him.
”I might have told her that dear Bruce doesn’t mean to hurt me; deep down I know that he loves me really, even if he never shows it. It’s all just too tragic,” Joker intones. He’s blinking up at Bruce in a voice that’s half mocking, half earnest — the kind of voice that makes Bruce want to strangle him.
“You’re a piece of work.”
”Aren’t I just,” he grins again. There’s nothing nice in it, just the sharp edges of someone who knows that what he’s doing is cruel. And what does it say about himself, Bruce wonders, that he knows it too but can’t bring himself to care?
Slowly, deliberately, Joker tugs off his leather jacket and lets it fall unceremoniously to the floor.
”What are you going to do about it?” he asks, still pushing, still smiling, and Bruce is on him almost before the words have left his mouth.
In the face of Joker’s certainty, Bruce’s doubt melts away like the blood he’d washed down the sink, the last dregs draining away as Joker bares his teeth. This time there are no rules, no spectators, just the two of them with no holds barred, and Bruce is ready to bloody his knuckles again.
His fist connects with Joker’s face at the same time he feels a blade slash across his ribs. The knife is always Joker’s preferred weapon when they’re away from prying eyes. He pulls himself back, heartbeat pounding insistently in his ears as he takes another slash to the arm. He doesn’t feel the sting of it, just feels the contact high and the adrenaline that makes his body sing.
They’re both hurt. Joker must be a mess of unformed bruises, Bruce’s body aches, but he can’t stop, won’t stop until it’s over. He pushes his way through the pain, keeps fighting back, crowding Joker until his back is pressed up against the brickwork.
He’s just as deadly when cornered, but Bruce manages to grab at his wrist, grips him roughly as he writhes and twists, tightening the hold until Joker drops the knife.
He turns to kick it away but fingers claw at his arm, sharp nails digging into his skin. It’s the surprise of it more than anything that causes him to loosen his grip. He realises his mistake as soon as he’s made it, but Joker’s already wrenching his arm free and scrabbling on the floor for the knife.
Unthinking, Bruce tackles him and then they’re both on the ground again, clawing at each other like it’s the only thing that can fix them.
He isn’t sure quite what happens next, just knows how it ends, his back pressed against the floor, breathing hard and heavy as Joker straddles him with the knife up against his neck.
“Checkmate, darling,” he breathes out, his face alight with something so devoted it’s almost numinous. Bruce doesn’t think that he’s ever seen anything so beautiful.
”What are you going to do about it?” Bruce echoes and then Joker is surging down to kiss him, the knife still pressed between them.
He kisses like he’s trying to suck the life out from him, like it’s the most important thing in the world, and Bruce thinks that he just might let him. Because this, this is what the others (Selina, Harley, everyone else) don’t get to see. This is just for him. It’s this that has him coming back when nothing else works, this that has him thinking that Joker is the worst kind of drug, because no matter how long it’s been he just can’t seem to quit him.
“My, my, what would the others think of you now?” Joker gasps out as he pulls away. Bruce shuts him up by drawing him back and catching red lips with his own again.
“They don’t matter,” he pants out between breaths. The club feels so small now, his fight with Selina so inconsequential in the wake of Joker, real and insistent on top of him.
It’s far too easy to get lost in the feeling, but this time the haze that holds him isn’t anger. As Joker begins to suck marks into his skin, all he can think is that maybe, just maybe, he’s found something else that’s worth fighting for.