A/N: This is a little different for me, but the inspiration hit one day. I'm not sure if this will be a one shot or if I'll add more to this somewhere down the line. We shall have to see. Please review and let me know what you think!
Strange Faces for Strange Men
After Bane's men had conveniently let slip who the Batman really was… well, the Joker took care of the rest.
Dead? Ludicrous. The bad couldn't die…
And, of course, the Joker had been right about that. There weren't many things the Joker was wrong about. Finding Bruce Wayne had been laughably easy after he had escaped his little holding cell in Arkham. All he'd had to do was cart around after the helpless old butler and Wayne had been right in his hands.
The Bat and the Cat. What a pairing that was!
He'd watched them, prancing around the Italian countryside, watched them with his newly acquired Arkham patience. Sure enough, as he'd predicted, the Cat was becoming bored. He knew the look and feel of it, could remember the taste of it on his tongue from his days before the Batman. She had it written all over her, except when she and the now cape-less bat were rolling around in their sheets.
And the Bat? Well, he still couldn't know what the bat was thinking, couldn't read a thing on his smooth, pretty little face. It was a wonder what removing a costume did for one's features. He wasn't sure which costume he preferred. The exciting mask, the pretty boy Wayne, or that little kernel of darkness that had existed within that body – the one that hadn't let him die when he had fallen from that building.
You just couldn't let me die, could you?
Well, the immovable force was about to meet the impenetrable object. The anticipation made the Joker's mouth water. It was going to be delicious.
/
Serena left, eventually. Bruce always knew she would in the end, after he had cleared her name. They were two completely separate people, after all. She wanted to see the world, to go places, to start her new life. Bruce? Bruce didn't have a new life, not really. He had the old life he had sealed behind him and he had this. This being time to think about all he had done and what to do now that all he had done was meaningless.
At least, it was meaningless to him.
If he was being honest, he didn't know what he wanted. Not now. It seemed eons ago before it had all began. Sometimes, when he lay awake alone at night, he considered the possibility that all there was to him was the Batman. That was who he was. That was he was going to be for the rest of his life.
It was just that that life was not his to live anymore. He had handed his mantle to a kid with more stamina and will than he had. And he was sure the kid would deal with Gotham's problems better than he had. It was just…
He didn't know what he wanted. If going back was even an option, he wasn't sure he'd take it.
But he supposed he had the rest of his life to figure out what his purpose was, where he was going, if anywhere. Serena was gone. The weather was nice, nice enough to sleep with the windows open. He was in Italy, in a house he had bought with a woman he had always known would leave him. And he had all the time in the world to find another.
He sighed, not bothering to lock up before bed. There was no one in the vicinity to rob him, anyway. Besides, there was nothing worth stealing in the house. And if anyone was coming for him, he didn't mind. He may not be the Batman anymore, but he certainly had more than a few cards left up his sleeve.
They would regret ever disturbing his well deserved silence.
/
His eyes snapped open and for a second he wasn't sure why he was awake. Until he heard the little beeping from his bedside table. He turned over and picked up the flashing screen. Tapping it, his systems promptly informed him that something had crossed onto his land. Something distinctly uninvited.
Bruce yawned.
It could easily just be a fox or something of the sort. In which case, Bruce could just go back to sleep and scout the grounds for any damage in the morning. It had happened three times before and Serena could never understand why Bruce wouldn't just roll over and go back to sleep.
It was because Bruce wasn't a betting man and Bruce didn't take chances. Not that he'd explained all of this to Serena.
Sighing, he got up and typed a code into a well concealed panel in the wall above his bed. A compartment opened and he armed himself with weapons he had carefully stored inside. It was at times like these he wished he had kept the suit.
/
The Joker's eyes opened slowly in confusion. He was sitting in a metal chair – oh, how delightful! Flexing his arms he realized he was bound tightly to said metal chair in some kind of cellar. He didn't have a cellar. Didn't recall crawling into one either. He remembered climbing over the Bat's fence, prowling towards the house, when…
"I thought I told you never to hit the victim over the head!" he laughed in delight. "Ah, ha, ha… all fuzzy."
Bruce Wayne stepped out of the shadows and narrowed his eyes at him. "How did you know that…"
"You're the Batman?" The Joker laughed his laugh. "Bane."
The Batman sighed, rubbing his forehead, and threw his gun onto the metal table. The Joker wanted to cackle. A metal chair and a metal table. The Bat had a set. Maybe he had been expecting this all along. Maybe the Bat had set this little playroom up just for them… and the thought made the Joker's heart race a little.
"Of course," the Bat said in disgust. "Why are you here, then? What do you want?"
The Joker stared. As if it wasn't obvious to the Bat why he was here. But maybe it wasn't. The Bat wasn't even really looking at him, not like it had been in the interrogation room, or in his penthouse, in the building where the Joker had almost fallen to his death… No, the Bat was barely looking at him at all and the Joker didn't like that one bit. There had been a time when he had been the centre of the Bat's world! This wouldn't do.
This wouldn't do at all.
But surely enough, the Bat lost patience and slammed his hands on the table. "What do you want?" he yelled.
The Joker laughed – truly laughed – because that was more like it!
"We still have our little game to finish!"
Bruce really did sigh then. He was getting too old for this shit.
"I don't play games anymore," Bruce said with finality.
Then he picked up his gun off the metal table, closed the lights, and climbed out of the cellar, locking up behind him. He went to bed, then, not thinking of the Joker, not even once. In fact, he forgot that the crazy thing was even down there.
All Bruce did was slip into his bed and sleep a truly dreamless sleep.
/
Bruce wasn't going to lie. He had considered leaving the Joker there, tied up to that metal chair. There really was no way for the man to escape, even if he managed to break out of his bonds. Bruce considered leaving him there. It would take maybe a week for the man to die of thirst. If not, if he somehow found liquids, then a month to starve?
People didn't need to go into their cellars. People rarely did. A month without going down there? Bruce could manage that. Bruce could hold out longer.
He didn't, of course.
He tried to make himself do it, but it was no use. On the second night, Bruce brought a bitcher of water and a sandwich for his prisoner. He made sure to leave the weapons behind. Bruce could rely on his own strength and the Joker's weakness. But the Joker was a wild card. If he got his hands on a weapon, they could be evenly matched. Bruce remembered their last fight.
"So you came back," the Joker said, squinting at him in the light. His voice was croaky. Bruce didn't feel bad, not even the slightest bit. "The Bat came back for little old me. I'm flattered!"
Bruce didn't react. He would have if he was still his old self, but the Joker didn't know how much he had changed. Things were altogether too different now. After Gotham's near destruction… after Bane's prison… After Miranda? How could he ever be the same?
"You just couldn't let me die, could you?" the Joker asked with glee.
"No," Bruce said simply.
Well that threw a wrench in the Joker's plans. The Bat wasn't rising to his bait. The Bat wasn't reacting, not really, and it made Joker feel like a child being scolded. He hated the feeling, hated it to bits, so he gritted his teeth against it. He didn't like this game that the Bat was playing, not at all.
He would have rebelled out, would have resorted to a dozen of his different schemes and plans, but the Bat scattered it all by putting a metal cup to his lips. The Joker's eyes widened as the Bat grasped his hair and tugged it back, tipping the liquid into his mouth. The Joker wondered if the Bat had poisoned it. That would be an exciting game.
That was a game he was willing to play.
And then the Bat fed him, which the Joker didn't know how the Bat could stand to do if he hated the Joker as much as he had claimed to in the past. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. But as he stared at Bruce Wayne's expressionless face, he wondered if maybe he'd made a mistake in coming here.
Maybe this Bat wasn't his Bat anymore. Maybe the game this Bat was going to play were games the Joker wouldn't like.
/
It was an odd routine. For the next three nights, the Bat came, watered and fed him, unshackled him from the chair – though still restrained with his hands behind his back – and let him use the loo.
It didn't matter what Joker said or did, how much he taunted the Bat or screamed obscenities. The Bat didn't react, didn't even flinch. Even when the Joker went over Rachel Dawes death in detail, the Bat did not blink. It scared Joker. It made him regret the whole endeavour.
This was worse than Arkham. At least there, he could dream of the Bat, think of all of their games. Here… well, here, the Joker feared that his Bat was dead. All he'd left behind was Bruce Wayne. Joker didn't know what to do.
On the fourth day, the Joker stayed absolutely silent, just like the Bat had been all this time. He pouted some, but that wasn't something he was about to give up. After the excursion to the toilet, the Joker caught the Bat smiling.
"So you can learn," the Bat remarked.
The Joker didn't know what that meant, so he glared as he was prone to doing. Bound as he was, with no scheme in place, what else could he do? He licked the insides of his cheeks, mapping his scars with his tongue, trying to think of a plan but miserably failing.
This night, the Bat did not chain him back to his metal chair. Instead, he put a bag over the Joker's head and marched him somewhere. The Joker wondered if the Bat was tired of playing this game. He wondered if the Bat was finally going to execute him now and release him from this miserably boredom.
Instead, when the Bat removed the bag, the Joker found himself in a bathroom. It was surprising. Joker didn't know how to react and missed his opportunity, because the Bat had already pushed him into the tub and handcuffed each of his wrists to a metal bar placed above the tub against the wall.
The Joker spluttered, stammered, and spewed every line he could come up with in protest. He did not want this. He did not want this at all. Not one bit.
"You stink," was all the Bat offered. The Joker was surprised he'd offered anything at all. "I can hardly keep you sitting there in your own filth."
The Joker was off his game, he really was. There were so many smart things to say back, things the Joker knew would rile the Bat enough for this to be a real game, where the Joker still had a fighting chance, one he knew how to play, but he was too slow. His mind was sluggish. He didn't know how to win. He could taste bitterness on his tongue from the unfairness of it all.
The Bat suddenly produced a knife, from where the Joker did not see. He began to remove what remained of the Joker's once beautiful clothes.
"My suit!" the Joker exclaimed. It was stupid, an imbecile thing to say, but the Joker couldn't understand what the Bat was getting out of this. What was the point? "My suit…"
The Joker just didn't understand how this game worked.
"Yes," was all the Bat said. "It's filthy. I would have asked you to strip, but I can't quite trust you not to try and injure anything."
The Joker supposed it was pointless to tell the Bat that he wasn't here to kill him, not really. Maybe the other way around. But the Joker had never seriously attempted to kill the Bat. Never! He'd only ever tried to have a little bit of fun. A little blood never hurt nobody. And scars were like tattoos. There was honestly nothing wrong with tattoos.
The Joker wore his proudly.
Even though the Joker was naked at that point and sitting in a tub whilst chained in front of the Batman, he hadn't felt truly naked until the Bat wet a cloth and starting wiping at his face. At first, the Joker didn't understand what the Bat was doing.
And then reality dawned and he understood that he really was naked, his face devoid of the protective mask.
He would have bit the fingers wiping at his face, he honestly tried to at one point, but the Bat was careful, too careful and exceedingly gentle. The Joker could see the greasepaint smear over the cloth and into the bath water. Seeing his last defence swim away from him like that, with no more cards up his non-existent sleeve, the Joker began to panic as the Bat gently washed him from head to toe.
/
This new routine continued and eventually, the Joker grew accustomed to it. Every second day, the Bat would put a bag over his head, guide him to this bathroom, chain him up in the tub, undo his clothes, and wash him from head to toe. The man was always gentle. AT first, it bothered the Joker, but then he grew accustomed to that too.
"Never knew your hair was blond," the bat said to him one day.
The Joker had his eyes closed, was actually enjoying the lather of shampoo in his hair – not that he would ever admit it.
"Mother was blond," the Joker grunted without opening his eyes.
"Mine was too," the Bat hummed. "How interesting."
The Joker was surprised that the Bat was talking to him. It had been weeks now. How many weeks, the Joker didn't know. The Bat never spoke. Not unless he needed to. And never this intimately. It made the Joker's heart race. It made him think all this patient waiting had actually been for something, after all, had maybe been worth it. Maybe they were finally going to play that game now.
The Joker smiled his smile. "You want to know how I got these scars?"
"No," the bat said gently, rinsing the shampoo from the Joker's hair. "But perhaps you can tell me about this one, instead."
The Joker stared at the Bat's fingers on his collarbone, touching a thin white scar that was very had to see. He sucked air through his teeth, licked the back of them, and then chewed at the inside of his cheeks. He wondered what kind of game the Bat was playing with him and if he should bother playing. He wondered if he played wrong, would the Bat go back to those silent weeks?
"Nigeria," he finally croaked and the Bat continued washing him, as if he had never paused in the first place. Back to the old routine. It calmed the Joker in some odd way. It was something familiar in territory that he had never been in. "Got on the wrong side of a couple of thugs."
"What did you do?" the Bat asked.
There was no curiosity in his voice, no interest, nothing. They were just making conversation, the Joker realized. The Joker couldn't intimidate the Bat with his words because the Bat had seen and done too many things to be intimidated by the Joker. The Bat couldn't be impressed, either. All the Bat wanted was the true story. The Bat just wanted to know about him. Him. The Bat wanted to know about the Joker.
The Joker didn't see the point of this particular game. He didn't see the point in lying either. So he was honest. Completely honest. The Bat didn't say anything to interrupt, didn't call him out on anything. He just listened.
And the Joker spoke his heart out.
/
That was how it went. Every other day the Bat would put a bag over his head, bring him to that bathroom, chain him to the wall, remove his clothes, and give him a bath. A very gentle bath. The Joker would always ask: Do you want to know how I got these scars?
The Bat would always gently decline. He would instead pint to another spot. Another scar. Another story. Soon, it was like a game to the Joker. First, he would guess where the Bat was going to point next. He thought about it for two full days and nights. Sometimes, he'd skip sleep so that he would be prepared for the Bat's questions. What story was the Bat going to ask for? The Joker wanted to be prepared, to give the Bat everything he wanted to hear.
The Joker sometimes wondered what the Bat was doing with all of these stories. Was he cataloguing the Joker's life?
The idea was seriously thrilling, almost to the point where the Joker was looking forward to these baths all in a desperate fashion. He would count down the hours to the next one. He would think about it all day and all night. Sometimes, he thought about ways to make the Bat take him there faster, but that never happened. Not because the Joker failed, but because the Joker never tried. This was some sort of scheme. He didn't want to fail and be returned to those awful days of silence.
He needed to hear the Bat talk. He couldn't live without it anymore. He refused to.
One day, though, the Joker realized he had run out of scars to talk about. They had talked about every scar on his body except for the ones on his face. That made the Joker wary, for now their game was over and they had finally reached the dreaded end. The Joker didn't know what he was going to do now.
All he knew, and he knew this in his soul, was that if the Bat left him again to his silence… well, the Joker couldn't stand that. No, he couldn't bear it. He would kill himself instead. He resolved to do so.
But still. That was not how he had wanted to go. If he was going to die, it was going to be at the hands of the Bat and no one else. He was going to have to find a way to get the Bat to kill him. It was simple enough. The Bat still did hate him after all. That much was clear, surely. Surely. Still… the Joker didn't want this game to be over. He never wanted it to be over.
So that night, the Joker resolved he wouldn't ask the question. The game couldn't be over if the Joker refused to play. That was the beauty of it. They needed two people. Tow people to keep on going.
The Bat washed him like he always did, carefully, precisely, perfectly, and gently. If the Joker knew better, it would feel like he was being worshipped. But to him, it felt like revenge. Soft and gently revenge. Maybe it was revenge for being rough, wanting it rough, wanting the rough edges in life. Maybe this was the perfect revenge for trying to destroy Gotham.
The Joker felt like the Bat was destroying him.
He stayed silent, though, of course he did. This was the only trick he had left. He didn't have his knives, not his clothes, not his grease paint. So he kept his silence close to his chest. He didn't even breathe audibly. He wore his silence like a cloak.
He stayed still and pliant, just like the Bat liked, like how the Bat had trained him to be after all of these months of baths. He relaxed into his cuffs. For they were his handcuffs now. He practically lived in them.
Soon, the Bat was washing his hair in the same manner than he always did. It was soothing to the Joker, having the Bat wash his hair. He could probably even admit it now if the Bat ever deigned to ask him. He didn't even find being fed by hand annoying anymore.
Compared to the long silences of the day, the Joker longed for these daily interactions with the Bat, waited for them…
Suddenly, the Bat was shoving his head under the soapy water, holding him there, and making his shoulders ache from being pulled too far. His hands were still restrained to the metal bar on the wall. He couldn't even really struggle, not unless he wanted to dislocate one of his shoulders, or both. It sounded fun, it really did, but he didn't think the Bat would take mercy on him. Being restrained with dislocated shoulders on that metal chair? That didn't sound like fun at all.
The Bat kept him under so long that the Joker thought maybe the Bat was finally done with him and it was time for his execution. Finally, sweet glory. It was slightly sad, the Joker thought. All of these scars, all of these stories… and the Bat wanted to drown him of all things? It was wasted potential, but he supposed it was the Bat's game and the Bat ought to finish it how he saw fit.
But it wasn't meant to be.
The Bat just couldn't let him die.
He was pulled up, his head hanging back over the edge of the tub, his hair dripping onto the bath mat. The bat unshackled him, but didn't pull him up any further than he already was. tHe Joker lay there in the tub panting, not moving, and not understanding what was going on.
The Bat grasped the Joker's jaw and made him stare up into the Bat's dark eyes.
"Hello," he said.
"Hi," Joker drawled in his perfectly infuriating drawl.
And the Bat forcibly submerged the Joker's head back beneath the water, the soapy water stinging his eyes and invading his lungs. Now that his hands were free, he could resist if he wanted to. The Bat had probably done it just so the Joker could resist.
The thing the Bat didn't get, though, was that the Joker didn't want to resist. He wanted this. He wanted everything the Bat was giving him. And this was a game he knew how to play.
He wondered if the Bat was going to swerve away this time, too. It didn't matter, either way. There was no Gordon here to save him. It was just him and the Bat and their game.
The Joker brought his hands up to wrap around the Bat's wrists. He didn't pull them away – he was probably too weak to do something like that, anyway – he just pulled the Bat closer, as close as he could get him to come. He looked up into those dark eyes through the water and saw that little smirk on the Bat's face and then let go. If that was how the Bat wanted it…
He was pulled up again and wondered how long the Bat wanted to drag this on for.
He sputtered and choked up the soapy bath water and he was sure there were tears in his eyes. Still, this was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in years. And all the better if he didn't have to return to that terrible metal chair…
The Bat was stroking his hair, maybe wringing water out of it, the Joker wasn't sure. And then he was stroking the Joker's cheeks. No… the Bat was stroking his scars.
And then the Joker knew what kind of game they were playing.
"Want to know how I got these scars?" he asked like he'd been asking every other night for god knows how long. Had it been months? Had it been years?
"No," the Bat said, and the smile on his face was dazzling. "But I would like you to tell me your name."
The Joker paused, not quite sure he'd gotten that right. "Joker."
"Your real name," the Bat said gently, one hand still on the Joker's cheek, the other moving back down to the neck.
The Joker paused once more, contemplating. There were two cards in his hand. He could choose to deny the Bat – and the Bat was giving him the choice – or, he could tell him. If he didn't, the Bat was going to drown him. Joker knew this. The Bat knew that Joker knew this and wanted it, too, even after all of these months. Joker craved the violence. But if he gave in… then the game continued and the Bat would still play.
"Jackson," the Joker rasped eventually.
"Jackson what?" the Bat asked with a smile. His big, brilliant smile.
"Cotrell," Joker spat.
"Shhh," the Bat soothed, his big hands pulling the smaller body up so that the Joker was sitting upright in the bath. The Joker devolved in a fit of coughing. He thought he might be breaking out into hives from all of this. He wasn't sure. "You can be taught after all."
The compliment lit a warm light inside of Jackson Cotrell, even though he didn't want it to, even though he didn't want to acknowledge that that name even existed.
The Bat had taken his clothes, his mask, his knives, and even his name, but the Joker didn't mind so much anymore.
/
Some weeks after that, the Bat didn't return him to his little prison cellar after his bath. There was still a bag over his head – the Bat didn't quite trust him all that much, even now – but they didn't leave the building. The Joker – "Jackson"! – was surprised at this development. He didn't show it, though. Silence was rewarded in this game of theirs and the Joker was wracking up his points.
He was guided through a door, the Bat's hand circled tightly against his bicep, and pushed against something. The Joker didn't know what it was at first, until the Bat nudged him to move forward. The Joker yielded, he always yielded, and tumbled forward on his knees.
It was a bed, something that the Joker had not felt in months now.
"Lay down," the Bat ordered and the Joker obliged him without even thinking about it. The Bat proceeded to shackle him to something. The Joker assumed it was the same metal bar that the Bat had lining the bathtub, it had to be. The Joker could feel the Bat's heat against him as the Bat leaned over him, and tried not to shiver. "Good."
It felt odd against his back, too soft, not meant for the likes of him. Where was his metal chair? What was his precious metal chair going to do without him? It would be bare. It was going to be as bare as the Bat had made him. Maybe that had been the plan all along.
Suddenly, the Bat removed the bag from his head. It was still dark in this room. The Bat hadn't bothered turning on the lights. It took Joker's eyes a second to adjust.
The Bat had chained only one of his wrists to the wall. He had been right, there was a metal bar running against the wall. The Joker knew without testing it that it would be firm. Not that he would have bothered. He was beyond such things now. Still, it was some sort of freedom – awkward freedom.
He didn't know what to do with himself. This was a new game all over and he didn't know how to play it. Did the same rules apply?
"Goodnight Jackson," the Bat said from the door. It was the first time he'd said something like that and it made Joker's heart race.
He was still getting used to hearing his own name.
"Goodnight," he mumbled. He heard the Bat snort and wondered what was so funny. Had he made the wrong move? Was he playing the wrong game?
The Joker didn't know. The Joker only had one face now. The rest depended on the Bat and what he wanted. The Joker knew instinctively that he'd do anything the Bat said.
So long as he did not have to return to that godawful silence.
A/N: What do you think? Would you like to see more?