A/N: Dedicated to Flattered By Mockery. Slash.
It goes without saying that I don't own anything.
Silent Night
The sky is dark and the streets are empty. The citizens of Gotham are sleeping away. Except for two.
In the slums of the city, a bat and a clown move together. They throw punches and kicks in near synchrony. To a bystander, it might appear as if they are dancing a feral, exotic dance. They are dangerously alluring under the December moon: the dark, mysterious bat-like vigilante and the garish clown with a come-hither grin.
A punch is landed, but not on its target. Instead the bat's fist connects with the wall of the alley, his body pulls forward with the force of his swing and nearly crushes the clown with the weight of his armor. The clown doesn't seem to mind, though. He lets out a noiseless laugh and grabs the bat's shoulders to stop him from moving away.
The bat looks confused and tries to say something but the clown shakes his head and smiles. He feels that words would only ruin this moment, this perfectly silent moment. His hands slide up and around the slightly taller man's neck. The bat is alarmed this time and opens his mouth to speak. But before he can form a single word, the clown's scarred mouth is on his.
The bat goes stiff and the clown pulls away with a grin. It wasn't a real kiss, just a peck. A joke. He wanted to throw the bat completely off guard and it worked. He looks up into the bat's eyes and sees some kind of recognition there. He finds it intriguing and decides to see if he'll receive a similar reaction if he tries again. He is pleasantly surprised to find that the bat will not allow himself to be thrown off guard a second time so he kisses the clown back. It's chaste and innocent, at first.
Then the bat realizes that he likes the feel of another mouth, no matter how grotesque it appears. He pulls back for a breath before pressing his lips against the clown's again. He can feel the other's elongated smile widen with satisfaction. Usually he abhors anything that causes the clown to feel satisfied, but he figures he can let it slide this one time.
At some point, his forearms come to rest against the wall on either side of the clown. The bat doesn't recall moving them but it doesn't matter. The only thing he cares about at the moment is becoming acquainted with that wicked mouth. And the clown seems willing to comply. He permits the bat entrance without a second's hesitation.
The bat notices that the scars on the clown's cheeks go all the way through the flesh. He can feel the uneven patchwork with his tongue. The clown chokes down a moan and grips the back of the bat's neck harder. It feels so good to have something touch his scars. It reminds him how painful they were and still are, but it's a delicious pain. Almost obscene in the effects it has on him.
The need for air has become obsolete as they continue to press nearer. One of the bat's legs is between the clown's as they attempt to get as close a humanly possible. The bat is subconsciously afraid that he will crush the lithe clown with the bulk of his suit but the clown doesn't seem to notice as he pulls the bat closer still. The bat tilts the clown's face up to deepen the kiss, running his tongue along the others eliciting a soft moan.
Finally, they break to draw in shallow gasps with their lungs burning from neglect. The look of vague lust in the clown's eyes says it all. It mirrors what the bat is feeling. He knows that this is wrong on many levels but he can't bring himself to care when he sees the way the clown licks at his scars in that suggestive manner.
Throwing future consequences to the wind, he dives back in full force and viciously attacks the clown's neck. The clown gives a content purr, which turns into a breathless laugh when the bat bites hard enough to draw blood. The mixture of blood, greasepaint, and sweat on the bat's tongue is surprisingly exquisite and very addicting. He laps it up like a dog.
They have become immune to the frosty December air and both fail to notice that it's starting to snow. It looks like it'll be a white Christmas after all. Gotham hasn't seen snow on Christmas day in a little over twenty years-the last Christmas before the Wayne family tragedy was the last white Christmas until now. It appears that the Heavens are gracing the two of them with a blanket white, of purity (however undeserved).
And it's under this snowy Christmas sky that the unstoppable force and the immovable object finally become one.