An Unexpected Visitor

It was a crazy idea, to be sure. Then again, most of his ideas were. The crazier the better, as far as he was concerned. And this one was as insane as they come. So juicy and so delectable an idea he was sure the aftertaste would live on in his memory long after the deed was done. For delicacies such as this were what he lived for.

The tricky thing was that this one had to work. Nothing could muck up the works or interrupt this one. Which meant being careful. Not his usual MO, but he could certainly manage it. He had to for this venture to be successful. And this one had to be successful. There was no alternative for this. Usually he could adjust his original plan to fit the circumstances, catering to the flow of the world to best enact his visions of chaos. But this had no wiggle room; it teetered on the edge of a switchblade, threatening to slip up with every move he made. Just his luck that the scheme that could not be changed also happened to be the most important scheme of his life.

The reason for the plan's importance? It wasn't because it would finally send the city over the edge into the pit of snakes it loomed over. It wasn't to further his master plan of anarchy and destruction.

No, the plan was so crucial to him – and him alone – because its purpose was entirely personal. He was not usually a selfish man by nature, for few personal possessions meant anything to him.

Then again, the Batman was undoubtedly the greatest personal possession he owned.

The wind was certainly fierce tonight; he drew his purple coat tighter around his body as he trudged on through the ghastly forest. It was a long hike from the city proper to the Palisades, but he couldn't risk traveling any other way than by foot. This plan called for the utmost secrecy, more so than his endeavors usually dictated. Even the slightest noise, one false step on a lurking tree branch, could risk detection. So it was with only his trusty, worn walking-and-stabbing shoes for transportation that he carried himself forward through the labyrinth of trees, wind whipping wildly about his coat like a pulsing violet flame that shrouded his advancing figure in the devil's aura.

His painted face set itself forward in grim determination; nothing was going to deter him from the task at hand. A task that had delayed some of his more potent schemes of business for another night. He had killed the odd teenage girl in the park with her boyfriend, held up a corner store or two only to torch the bills and wolf down the candy bars, but it was all small business. All to keep up appearances. He couldn't have the citizens believing he was going to take a night off without some fun, now could he?

Tonight was special, though. It was time to satisfy his curiosity once and for all, so he could move on. Well, that was the plan, anyway, but he might like what he discovered, and after that who knows where it would take him?

Finally, he neared his destination as the imposing towers of Wayne Manor materialized through the whispering leaves overhead. His eyes gleamed as it swam into view, his goal in sight at last. Now he came to the edge of the forest, where free open air washed over his face in a gentle wave. He had never particularly cared for enclosed spaces, preferring the sweeping scope of the outdoors to permeate the atmosphere with its limitless possibilities. A man could breathe out here in the open, and anything could happen without the confines of space.

Being out in the open at the moment, however, had its down sides: increased possibilities also raised the chances of getting caught. And he couldn't let that happen, not tonight. Not when he was so close. That in mind, he hugged the perimeter of the forest for a bit longer as he scanned the towers and turrets of the mansion for the object of his yearning.

There! His eyes locked on the third-story window towards the back of the western tower, where a light snapped on and an unmistakable silhouette came into view. Even without the cape, armor, or ears, he was still easily recognizable from a great distance; looking back, he wondered how he had missed it before. The physique and wealth should have made it obvious, and the window episode with that Rachel bitch should have been a dead giveaway, but still he had believed it was Harvey. Especially when Harvey had declared it himself; then he had applauded his own intuition about the Bat for calling it right when no one else saw it coming. But then when the Batman had shown up on Lower Fifth…that was what he hadn't seen coming. The chin, the motives for Rachel, the background of family tragedy…suddenly in the MCU it had all clicked into place. Bruce Wayne. And his timely disappearances and alibis for his absences when Batman had work to do abroad…everything about it was too perfect. More and more he became convinced that it was indeed the wealthy philanthropist behind the mask.

Turning his attention back to the window, he saw the blue-black shadow shrouded by moonlit curtains rip off the shirt it wore, then twist its arms high above its head in a reaching stretch. When the pose was relaxed, the shadow rolled its shoulders around as if trying to loosen knots in its back, then disappeared from sight as the lights flicked off.

He seized his chance and stealthily dashed across the soft green lawn to the foot of the mansion.

The third story was quite high off the ground, but he managed easily, his deft hands and lightning feet picking out even the smallest of ledges from the protrusions of brick. His ascent took less than ten minutes, and the balcony's French doors were easily unlocked – for all of Batman's tight security, it seemed as though Bruce Wayne was not expecting a nighttime visit from his alias's enemies. Once he jimmied the lock open with his knife collection's newest addition, he found himself pausing before opening the doors upon the man's bedroom. Could the Batman really be found behind these lavish portals, in his most normal and mundane of positions? Could his prize really be that close, right in front of his nose? The anticipation, the knowing that his goal was seconds away from actuality, was too priceless for him to brush aside without a second thought. He stood there in bold triumph, a grin taking over his face as he milked the impending moment of glory for all it was worth.

After a moment, he felt satisfied. He swung open the doors as silent as the grave, and stepped over the threshold into his arch-enemy's abode.

What a grand place this was! The spacious, almost cavernous living quarters were equipped with all the finest luxuries to be expected of a man with $5.8 billion at his disposal. More than that, everything was so…clean. So neat and organized, not a sock out of place, not a picture frame unpolished. Although he had had Batman pegged as rich for a while, it still took him slightly by surprise to see for himself the extent of the wealth and comfort his enemy could afford to surround himself with.

But what caught his attention most was the man himself. Sprawled out on his stomach on the center of his bed, the sheets lay mused and matted beneath him. It looked as if he had simply and suddenly collapsed onto the mattress and had conked out before his head had even hit the pillow. His dark brown hair stuck out chaotically around his head, as if ruffled up to stop it from clinging to him as it usually did underneath the cowl. T-shirt discarded on the floor (apparently he had been so exhausted he had neglected to put it away properly), he wore only a pair of black slacks, exposing his bare back to the rampant gusts that blew past the clown into the room. Realizing this, he silently closed the doors behind him, his eyes never leaving the sleeping form.

At last he proceeded softly toward the bed, sidestepping the forgotten heap of the shirt on the floor. He moved like a panther in the night, scarcely daring to breathe lest he alert his prey to his presence. As he soundlessly approached, other details presented themselves to him: his enemy's steady rise and fall of his back as he slept on; the scowl lines that were beginning to etch permanently onto his face (in large part thanks to his current visitor); the haunted dark circles under the closed lids that betrayed the overworked and sleep-deprived man who was desperately attempting to catch up on his shut eye. From the look on his unconscious face, however, it didn't look as if it would do him much good; the slumber was shallow and rushed, forced without giving his body the proper attention it deserved, for he was just going to wake up two hours later to continue his routine of playboy by day, vigilante by night.

As he finally slowed to a halt at the edge of the bed, his eyes darted all around the one at rest, trying to file away every detail into his memory. For this chance may never come again, and he had to savor it while it lasted. The rippling muscles drew his attention most, lying coiled under his radiant flesh, ready for action at any given moment. He slowly lowered himself to sit on the very edge of the bed, taking every precaution not to wake his other half up to the shift in the mattress. At an even closer glance, the muscles were even more impressive; they lay in wait, soldiers on a constant campaign, prepared for battle when duty called.

Suddenly, he realized that that was the whole problem. He was too ready. Always ready, always anticipating the next fight. He never gave his body a break. He just kept working it and working it and working it to the point of complete burnout; no wonder he had collapsed into bed! Without the proper rest he needed, he would never recover from his constant fatigue, and his physical condition could start to decline from its current peak, especially when the decay of time took its toll.

It then struck him just what the Bat was doing: he was sacrificing himself again. He was once again putting his city's wellbeing before his own, letting his health suffer in his precious people's stead. It was just another way to fill his self-imposed role as Gotham's scapegoat, gnawing at him so no one else would lose sleep over their loved ones getting home safe at night. He rolled his eyes at the notion of Batman's self-righteousness complex taking another hit for the city, when he saw a muscle twitch in Bruce's back.

He fixed his eyes on the spasm, tensed for Bruce's reaction to his presence upon awakening, but the reaction never came. He looked back to the sleeping hero's face, and saw it wore a darkened expression, as if upset and quite dissatisfied with whatever he was experiencing behind his eyelids. It was as if he had sensed his enemy's thoughts on his hopeless condition, and instinctively knew it to be true but tried to stubbornly deny the situation as he always did. His back must be giving him some real trouble from his pained expression, for his body kept tensing, flexing, twitching, trying to work the sore kinks out to no avail.

Watching the writhing display, a sudden impulse grabbed hold of his senses, and before he knew what he was doing he pressed his right hand to the violent muscle, firmly rubbing two fingers around it in an effort to quiet it down. He felt warm blood pulse through the back underneath his fingertips, gradually slowing under the touch. He turned back to Bruce's head, looking to see if the contact had awoken him, but still he slept on. The grimace had left his face, though, and had been replaced with a far more…peaceful expression. It pleased him to know that he was still not to be discovered, and amused him to think that a simple touch from him could cause such a change in mood for the vigilante.

It then startled him when he heard a low hum of appreciation issue from Bruce's throat.

He paused, wondering if that meant his nemesis was breaking the confines of sleep, or if he had just entered a more pleasant dream for the moment. Or – what he hoped – he had been the cause of it. Smile slanting sideways, he pressed on Bruce's back again, kneading slowly through the layers of muscle to elicit another response.

Bruce hummed again, louder this time, and his lips crept up into a shadow of a grin.

His own lips curled up wider at the result. How unbelievably funny it was to have the dark knight under his power, holding the key to his pleasure in his hands! This was just too good an opportunity to pass up.

He then continued to rub his hand into Bruce's bare back, kneading at exposed muscles and smooth skin with firmness gentle enough to ensure he didn't wake the man up. Bruce continued to quietly moan his approval of the treatment into the side of his pillow, and his face soon took on a look of total subconscious bliss. For it was his subconscious that was responding to the therapeutic touches of the clown; had he known who it was that was caressing him in this manner he would have sprung up to beat and drag him back to Arkham. But for now, as long as he didn't wake him up…

He brought his hand up to the back of Bruce's neck, rubbing slow circles into the top of his spine, and nearly froze again when he heard a sharp intake of breath from the sedate crusader. He had felt his way up to the base of his hairline, and assumed it a very sensitive area from the goosebumps that erupted over Bruce's arms. Absently, he wandered up further through the dense, full locks, weaving through the tangled forest of brown in a languid fashion. Bruce sighed softly and then seemed to enter a much deeper slumber.

He continued to stroke Bruce's hair, letting his mind wander to the bed beneath him as he did so. It was perhaps the most comfortable surface he had ever sat upon. Tempur pedic, most likely. And the pillow his elbow rested on…like lying upon a cloud. The sheets below him were soft as well, made of the smoothest silk that was manufactured to envelop the body like a mother's gossamer kiss. How could Bats have such trouble sleeping on a bed like this?

Unable to resist, he adjusted himself to stretch out on the bed next to Bruce, and it took all his mental discipline to avoid falling asleep right then and there. He turned to the other next to him, fingers still snaking through his hair. Bruce laid completely still, save for his hushed, deep breathing that whirred calmly in and out of his nostrils. He smiled at the peaceful sight of the very un-peaceful man who had kicked the shit out of him on multiple occasions, then roamed his eyes over the body again in quiet indulgence of his curiosity.

The sculpted body really and truly was a work of art. Each contour found its perfect niche, falling into place as naturally as the good little soldiers they were. Even the loose pants could not hide the texture of toned calves, of thighs, and farther up still. He suddenly felt a compelling urge to move his hand down and grab his ass, seeing how it felt, what sort of tension he could unwind from it to perhaps loosen him up some more, finding out just how much he would moan from that…

He snapped his eyes up to the sudden light that crept in under the closed door from the hallway beyond it. Ah. He remembered from his research about Bruce Wayne. That old butler. He must have lost track of time, for it was now almost seven o' clock, and he had been laying here for over two hours. Well, he'd just have to figure his ponderings out some other time.

Not fifteen seconds later when Alfred entered the room, the Joker had vanished without a trace. His mission was complete. He had seen Bruce Wayne, without the mask, up close and personal. And he had discovered a few things about what the billionaire liked, and what he subconsciously wanted.

And surprisingly, he had learned what he was beginning to want, too.

Heehee, Joker's such a creeper...