Disclaimer: I do not own the movie(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Title: Dead Bats Don't Bite
Author: c. dirt (mui)
Summary: After Bruce Wayne has given up his Batman identity, Joker pays him a surprise visit to remind him of the heady intoxicant known as 'power'.
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and slashy sex.
Pairings: Bruce Wayne/Joker
Disclaimer: The Dark Knight is not my movie. I don't own any of the characters including in this fic. It's simply selfish entertainment, and I'm making no profit.

Bruce was tired.

He was done. Cards dealt, lost, deck cleared.

It was over.

In a way, he felt relieved. His mind was reeling at the possibilities of what it could all mean—freedom. The freedom to go back to being human, to go back to being normal… if such a thing was even conceivable. With all the money of the Wayne estate at his fingertips he had nothing else to worry about. After all, ideals are for heroes, activists, vigilantes—comic book shit. That's what they called him, you know; a vigilante, a symbol. But how much damage had he caused? How many people had died? He could still smell gunpowder, blood, smoke, burning bodies. Batman was no hero. He was a shot in the dark, he did it all wrong—Bruce could not embody that which Batman was supposed to be, it was an inhuman task, it was a lie.

But he had fooled everybody.

He was a fool.

Bruce had another glass of wine. It was his fifth, and it was late.

He had shut the blinds. He couldn't bear to look at the city any more. The lights from all the buildings of Gotham seem to enhance his headache, make his heart pull in his chest. So the manor was dark, darker than usual at 3 a.m. on a Thursday night. The Joker was locked up, Twoface was dead… the city was quiet and Batman was no longer needed. Batman was dead.

Bruce walked into his bedroom. Like everything else in his apartment it was huge, cavernous, and sparse. He sat on the bed. It was cold but he didn't care.

Just one more glass of wine…

And goodnight, Gotham.

He felt something cold against his face.

At first he thought it was a breeze. An icy chill off the Icelandic coast… his nose catching the scent of wild flowers, a vast open blue sky…

Was he dreaming?

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey." A familiar, high-pitched voice…

Who is that? Is that him? No, it can't be…

"I said, WAKE UP!"

The blade sliced his cheek, pain shooting through his eye socket. Bruce's eyes snapped open.

But it was dark.

Only vaguely, like a Francis Bacon painting, could the brutal colors be seen… lavender, a shock of royal purple, insane peacock green…

The Joker was perched, like a flamboyant psychotic bird, on Bruce's chest like the proverbial Devil himself, legs splayed to either side. The bastard didn't even bother to take off his brogues and he had tracked dirt all over the bedsheets. He had that knife, that damn knife up against Bruce's lip, his class act, his practiced routine… and now Bruce's blood was dipping into his own mouth.

Sleep paralysis, and that stubborn resonant drunkeness kept him stiff for a moment, but his body seemed to jerk up of it's own accord to wrestle the maniac off of him.

Oh, but Joker was good, and he was a clever act—he tightened his knees around Bruce's hips and rode out the thrusts like a cowboy riding a bull. Then Bruce punched him squarely in the jaw, and he fell back with a joyful shriek, and Bruce managed to flatten his hand into the man's scrawny neck.

"How did you find me?" A good question to start with. Bruce's mind was reeling, really. Out of all the priorities filed away in his double-life, he had made sure not to reveal his true identity to any of his enemies—so how did the bastard know where to find him, much less escape from his cell? How?

A cackle of shrill squeals. The well-dressed loon writhed on the bed, flipping the stubby knife around in a gloved hand, feet kicking, grinding soot into the sheets… he swung his arm to stab, Bruce grabbed it with his a hard fist and pinned it to the bed.

"How did you know?" Bruce lifted his hand from the man's neck, and threw a battery of punches, bloodying bare knuckles; each time catching the Joker in the mouth, spraying blood across his smeared makeup mask. "Tell me!"

"Oh, but don't you wish you knew, bat…" Tongue lashing out to taste his own blood, "or should I say, Bruuuuuce Wayne? Of Wayne enterprises?"

He struck him again, twice.

"Fancy that…"

Punch, smack.

"…what would the world do if they knew where you hang your suit at night, hmm? Would they love you, grovel at your feet, beg for you to save their souls? Oh, no, no, no, no…"

Another one across the nose, that one shut him up for a moment.

After a brief pause the joker just started to squeal, shake vibrato. Finally he dropped the knife, it clattered hollowly on the hardwood floor. "Oh, hit me hit me hit me!" He cackled, groaned…

Bruce pulled off him then. He was furious, sweating, mind racing. The wine haze still hung in front of him, and he stared at the disheveled psychopath, who lay with his vest open, chest heaving up and down, eyes glimmering…

"You could kill me now, you know, but you won't. You just want to throw me around a little. You like it. It makes you hard."

"You're a sick fuck," Bruce breathed.

"You are," Whispered the Joker. He slid slowly to his side, keeping those wet, kohl-smeared eyes locked on Wayne. "Don't tell me you never liked it. The power… of holding someone's life in your hands." A gloved hand reached out, grazed across Bruce's bare stomach. Bruce grabbed the offending arm and twisted Joker onto his stomach, pinning his wrist to his back, shoving his face into the mattress, powder makeup smeared everywhere now, but once again, he didn't care…

"Surely you don't prance around in that skin-tight leather get-up for no good reason!" A barrage of laughter ensued. Bruce twisted his arm further.

"What do you want from me? I'M DEAD. Don't you understand? I quit. I'm done." He squeezed the arm harder, could feel it almost breaking under his grip, dug his elbow into Joker's ribs… he felt the man squirming under him, could feel the heat coming off of his body from his cheap polyester coat. Was he… was he enjoying this?

"Tell me, Batty, when you fucked Rachel, did she stay quiet like a good girl, or did she beg for it?"

Joker was toying with him. That was it, he came here to torment him.

Bruce lost it.

Bruce flipped him over, climbed on top of him, shoved a knee into his gut and started to pummel him. He crashed his fists into him until his hands were numb, until he was almost crying. His face was hot, his body burned in a frenzy of anger, frustration, confusion.

It wasn't until he could barely lift his fist that he realized the Joker was moaning, gasping erratically… and that his narrow hips were shoved against Bruce's thigh, his cock burning hot through his green trousers.

"Masochist," Bruce gasped. His lips formed the word before he could even think it.

"You need it…" gasped the Joker. He was literally drooling. His hand drew down, he dipped it into the waist of pants, wrist wiggling… he was touching himself. Bruce was struck dumb. Then he felt a twinge zap down his spine. He just sat there for a moment, unable to make sense of it all, the Joker's daring eyes locked on his, that pink tongue flashing out to lap the copper taste of blood, hand yanking south of the equator. "We need eachother… Bat… Man."

"I don't need you." Bruce whispered. He started to sink back, slide off of the madman who was by now manipulating himself with the utmost skill.

Joker sat up slowly. With his other hand he wiped at his mouth, started licking the blood off his fingers. He got to his knees. He crawled towards Bruce Wayne. He sank down, put his face on Bruce's groin, dragged his lips over the silken material of his unstrung pajama pants…

"Let me help you…" He smirked.

He couldn't move.

And Joker grabbed him just then.

And he was…

"Hard…." Joker said.