A/N: Set as an alternative ending to "The Killing Joke", CONTAINS BATSLASH (BatmanxJoker) Rated T for Tee hee hee.
The bat man was still. In front of him, the Joker sat hunched with his back to the vigilante, half petulant half hopeless. Both men were tired- not from the fight, not from the chase or the stress and excitement. They were tired of this, of them. The hatred and the redundancy, the repetitive useless struggle. The rain that loomed began to fall, and Batman looked towards where the sunrise would be in only a few hours. The derelict carnival behind them and the city across the bay in front of them- it seemed like a false promise, like a lie, like a joke.
"I've been thinking lately. About you. About us."
The Joker didn't stir at the words, he kept his head inclined to look at the quickly-muddying ground. The empty pop gun had fallen from his purple-gloved hands.
"We're going to kill each other. Maybe I'll kill you. Maybe you'll kill me."
Unable to see the crusader, the Joker listened half-heartedly. What was the other man doing? It was so unusual- He'd shot a young lady tormented an old man…why wasn't the bat attacking him? Why wasn't he doing his "for the better good" thing?
"But I want to know if we have a chance. This might be our last chance not to go that way. Maybe I could help you…maybe you could help me."
It felt strange to look at the Joker's prone form, slumped in the muck. Those ruby lips not pulled up to give a howling cackle. Batman wasn't familiar with this, but he pressed on.
"We don't have to do this."
The clown stayed silent, but Bruce could tell he was listening. A moment passed, noticed only by the wind as it rippled the cape that hung from the larger man's shoulders. The prince of crime and the dark night were fixed, neither really facing each other but completely, unutterably held in place by their presence. The moment grew longer, until Batman sighed. He was terribly tired. He slowly came forward, dropping his gauntlet-like gloves before dropping to his knees behind his nemesis. He gently nudged the lanky man's legs away from his purple-clad bottom to fit his knees in the space created, all the while lacing his bared fingers in the emerald mop of hair. He wasn't used to the feeling of soft hair- all the floozies he took out as Bruce Wayne dyed their hair or used enough products to turn silky locks into straw. The full-bodied green felt incredible, so he massaged his strong fingers into the pale scalp, enough pressure to move the man's head (not that he was resisting) but not enough to pull the hair. Well, a little pulling. It made the Joker's eyes droop as he felt those powerful hands work over him, and he leant back against the broad solid chest behind his back. Batman's hands were heavy, and created a delicious weight on his skinny shoulders. He had to shimmy up onto the larger lap a bit to recline, but slid back down on the Kevlar-enhances spandex. The Joker repeated the futile motion a few times before Bruce wrapped a stable arm around those wiry shoulders, keeping him close. Then the caliph found his voice.
"It does have to be like this."
"It doesn't"
"This can't happen."
"It is."
Batman allowed his chin to rest against the junction of the pale man's neck. For so long they'd been enemies. For so long he'd hated the Joker. Loved the Joker. It had been years and years since the accident that made the madman, and years and years since he'd begun to love him. Love his mischief, his freedom. Love his corrupted hair and defiled lips. That pigment deficient skin and most of all those eyes…they were insane, and evil, and god they were pure. The clown was the only person who knew exactly who he was, exactly what he thought, felt, believed, wanted, hated, loved. The clown didn't wonder about how or why he lived. The Joker was unswayable. The though drove Batman mad. That this enigma, this pillar of strength and sureness was locked inside a madman- yet he wouldn't have it any other way.
The Joker himself heard the Batman's breathing grow erratic, and he deftly twisted himself until he was straddling his archenemy, gazing into his cornflower eyes.
The Joker had denied himself for so long. He'd wanted the batman, but how could he take him when the man was his only good toy? How could he trade all those wild nights of fire and chases? The Joker feared nothing, not any man or force. Except the thought of losing his Batman. When it came to the dark knight, the unknown made his insides curdle.
The two men sat in the embrace, resting their chins on each other's shoulder and holding tight to whatever could be grabbed- purple tux, the base of a neck, dark cape and hard muscle were all free game as the two indulged on the closeness they so rarely got, so rarely shared. It was tender and needy and when their heads turned just so and their mouths met is was just so natural. Purple gloves fell to the ground into an ever-deepening puddle so that white hands could pull the strong chin closer, hooking his thumbs in the cowl. The rain soaked both men to the skin.
Batman wasn't confused. He had always had a taste for the exotic as Bruce Wayne. And as Batman the trash-tabloids had an omni-present column regarding his relationship with Robin. But Bruce didn't love Dick that way. There had been a time, had been a night he'd loved Dick that way, but not anymore. Neither of them talked about that night.
The Joker wasn't confused either. He loved the bat man. He loved the bat man more than he loved himself, even. (It had been a strange and shocking revelation to the narcissistic clown) So when his tongue darted out (almost without his permission) He gave a small sigh when his counterpart obliged and allowed entrance into his mouth. He had to repress a giggle when the thought of his tongue in the "Bat cave" caught up to him.
There was no animalistic passion or overwhelming need. Nothing from a harlequin romance novel with all the mind-dulling emotions. When the Joker and the Batman met like this, it was as if the two were one, fully conscious of their movements, their surroundings, fully aware of consequences and repercussions. Neither cared.
Batman's hands wove back into the green locks, and the Joker slowly pulled away from his lips- just enough to see his eyes, but not enough that he couldn't feel the heat of each puff of breath his love took. His eyes were probing, curious. His thumbs, still hooked in the cowl, gave a small tug to feel how easily the fabric slid. Bruce didn't stop him when the thin man gave a long, slow tug. He could have stopped him, but chose not to. His cowl joined both sets of gloves and the empty gun in the mud.
"Bruce Wayne." The Joker mumbled, not sounding surprised in the least. He was, but he could ruminate later. Strong lips had captured his own.
Like this, he could love him. When he was Batman, cloaked in Bruce Wayne, he could adore him, feel him. When the cowl was on, when it was Bruce Wayne in Batman, they would have to play. They would HAVE to play.
"The city won't like this." His high voice whispered against Bruce's lips.
"The city doesn't have to know."
A/N: Set as an alternative ending for "The Killing Joke", this is NON NOLANVERSE. The Joker is NOT HEATH LEDGER. Te Joker is the Joker, dammit!
Review; tell me if you want another chapter. If not, I'll make it a one-shot.