Rating: M

Warning: No lemons this time. Sorry, folks.

Author's Note(s):

1. This story was written for the first prompt ("First Kiss") of the Batman/Joker Week.

2. I usually write OF and haven't tried my hand at FF for the last eight years. This is also my first Batman/Joker fanfic and while I adore this pairing and tried to do them justice, I realize some (a lot? You be the judge of that!) of this might be OOC. Participating in the Batman/Joker week is my way of trying to get a feel of this pairing and finding a writing style that I like, so please forgive me if this seems like a rough draft (it kind of is).

3. This is a Nolanverse fic. So, if you don't like Nolanverse, I understand, but then beware that this fic probably isn't for you.

4. This turned out longer than I expected. Any following prompts will likely be much shorter.

5. English is not my first language, so if you find that words don't add up or sentences don't make sense, I would love you if you told me so I can (hopefully) grow as not only a writer but a speaker as well.

6. Enjoy (hopefully)! :)

When Bruce wakes from his deep slumber, he does so sluggishly, slowly, the ache in his muscles an unnecessary reminder of last night's escapades. He hates to admit it, but the cat-and-mouse games the Joker and he have been participating in for the last few months are starting to take their toll on him. He is tired and worn, but most of all, he is angry. The Joker remains just out of his grasp, as always, and the dreams that plague him offer no different outcome.

Bruce realizes it is not a good idea to start into the day by thinking of the madman before he has even opened his eyes. It will just make him cranky, and Alfred will worry more than he already does.

Finding the strength not to simply turn around and go back to sleep is hard, becoming aware of his surroundings proves to be even harder. Stretching, Bruce grimaces at the strain in his arms and curls his back with the intention of rolling up into a sitting position – only to release a groan at the sudden pain in his wrists as metal cuts into tender skin punishingly.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. Rise. And. Shine."

Bruce's eyes snap wide open, just as a familiar cackle travels from near the window to his ears. The man in bed visibly stiffens, the heart in his chest starting into a painful, irregular sprint that drenches the color from his face and leaves him feeling as perturbed as any ordinary playboy billionaire should feel in the Joker's presence.

It takes him a moment to regain control, and even longer to make out the madman's shape in the semi-darkness of his room. Bruce's gaze falls onto the form sitting lazily against the window sill with his legs crossed, one leg swinging back and forth in a sickeningly fitting mockery of a child on a swingset. The sole source of light in the darkened room – a small ray of sunlight peeking in between drawn curtains – highlights only one gloved hand and a few greasy locks of green hair.

Bruce stiffens, his brain kicking into gear with a dozen thoughts a second. Where is Alfred; is the man unharmed? What items close to him can he use to escape the handcuffs; how did he get handcuffed to his own bed in the first place and why, oh why, is the Joker in the home of Bruce Wayne? Does the madman know?

The last thought comes like a slap to his face, and suddenly Bruce is so very conscious of the fact that he is not wearing his suit, or his mask, or any of his usual devices. Instead he is half-naked, no kevlar in sight, and as of yet still restrained in the presence of Gotham's most wanted criminal. He is also Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne has no idea how to take down a psychopath like the Joker – hell, Bruce Wayne even lacks the courage to entertain such thoughts.

"What…" He doesn't even have to fake the hesitation, the worry, if not fear, adorning his voice that is still rough from sleep. Bruce clears his throat and swallows, racks his brain for a response and tone adequate for Bruce Wayne and finally manages. At least he thinks he does. He has never had to play the part for Joker. "What… do you want from me? Why are you here?"

If the Joker's gaze on him is unnerving, the clown's silence is even more so. Bruce watches the man cock his head, then smile a smile that accentuates his facial scars in an all too familiar way. The Joker's tongue makes an appearance to flick against the far corner of his red lips, only to come away again with a soft click.

"Ah, Brucey-Bruce." His name on the Joker's lips is drawn out, as if the clown is trying to decide what the name feels like in his mouth. Bruce can't help but stiffen. "Is that, eh, any way to welcome a guest? I think not. Are you not, ah, happy to see me?"

There is a pout in the clown's voice but before Bruce can come up with a reply, the madman has hopped off the window sill and started sauntering towards him. The glint of a knife in the Joker's right hand catches Bruce's attention, his eyes momentarily stuck on its familiar sight.

Tugging at the handcuffs, Bruce bends his knees and pulls with all his might. It is suddenly very hard to suppress a growl. Batman does not like this game. He does not like it at all.

The clown merely chuckles, a sound so full of glee and satisfaction that Batman wants nothing more than to punch the man's lights out until there is nothing left. Everything about this situation is unacceptable, and the Batman despises it.

- But right now, he is still only Bruce Wayne. And Bruce knows that, even if he manages to free himself or at least knock the Joker unconscious, any such action might have consequences he does not know how to deal with. The Joker knows Batman too well; and surely, if Bruce makes one wrong move, the madman will know. And then what? Bruce cannot risk turning him in to the police then, but he also cannot, will not kill the man. There is one more option, of course, and that is to keep the clown here. Bruce knows the third option would be a risk to his very own sanity.

"What… do you want?" he repeats at last, trying to sound and look as nervous as possible. He even tries to pull at the cuffs again, this time to pretend that he wants nothing more than to inch away from the ever approaching madman. (In a way, this is not far away from the truth.)

"If it's money you want, I assure you I can provide you w–" His attempts at bargaining are disrupted by a bout of hysterical, shrill laughter that seem to echo with madness in the otherwise silent room. Bruce pretends to flinch and watches as the Joker brings up one hand to slick back his already greasy hair, and holds the other to his stomach as more laughter erupt.

And then, abruptly, they stop. The Joker is on him seemingly out of nowhere, straddling his waist, before Bruce can even think about bucking upwards to throw the man off. A hand circles his throat, pinning him to the mattress, and the blade against the corner of his mouth feels cold against his suddenly heated skin.

The Joker all but leers down at him, his green eyes burning with cold, ill-hearted amusement. He leans in, and Bruce feels the pressure of the knife against his skin. He tries not to move but the closeness of both the man's face and his weapon make it difficult not to try and twist away. But the clown leans closer still, until their noses are brushing. Whatever it is that is on his face this very second, the Joker seems oddly pleased with it, because he backs up just slightly a moment later. The glint of satisfaction in the madman's eyes is unmistakable, and Bruce knows – he knows he does not want to be here.

"Brucey, Brucey, Bruce," the clown mocks with a click and swipe of his tongue, his gaze flicking to his knife as he slides it along the corner of Bruce's mouth with a tenderness that is deceptive. Bruce knows this game; he has seen the Joker play it with many others before him. "I came to ah, kill you. You see, I am quite… bored, and I wanted to spice things up a little. But ah, I've had a, uh, what do you call it?" The Joker giggles suddenly, and Bruce can't help but wonder if he's missing out on the punch line of a joke. "… Ah yes, a uh, change of heart, so to speak."

"Please." Bruce isn't sure how convincing his plea is, so he throws in a bit of stutter for the sake of it. He is not ready for this kind of confrontation. "I can give you anything you… you want. Money, power, anything." But even as he says it, Bruce starts shifting his legs slowly, inching them apart as subtly as possible in order to prepare for an attack. He is not about to get his face sliced up by the madman, or any other part of himself for that matter.

The Joker's eyes glint with interest, even as his expression seems to darken. "Please –"

"Sssh, shh," the madman interrupts in a sing-song voice, petting the billionaire's cheek none-to-gently, "no need to get so upset. No need to be so… serious, hehe." Beneath the Joker, Bruce's muscles tense in preparation.

The Joker merely leans in again, and presses the knife against the corner of Bruce's mouth until a drop of blood spills. Bruce doesn't flinch, but his legs finally settle on each side of the Joker's own. The fingers against his throat soften slightly as the Joker turns his head to draw attention to his painted mockery of a smile.

"Would you like to know how I got these scars?"

("No," Batman growls in fury, flips them over and headbutts the clown into unconsciousness.)

Before Bruce can think, he does flip them over, twisting his head to the side and away, and feels the tip of the knife slide across his cheek and draw blood. Yet the pain is barely there, only gracing the surface, and his momentary triumph over the Joker outweighs it by far. Shoving his hips forward, Bruce pins the man beneath him, juts out his elbow to knock the knife out of the criminal's grip and ignores the pain of his bound wrists being tangled up all wrong.

Batman is furious, and for a moment his breaths come out heavy and uneven. He can't help but glare at the man beneath him. But the clown only seems to be beyond excitement.

"Look at you," he sing-songs, cackling, "so feisty. I like that. I like that a –" A click of his tongue. "- lot."

Realizing what he's done, Bruce loses the expression immediately. Instead he manages to look surprised (he is) and fearful (he isn't) at his own actions.

What now?

Bruce pulls at his restraints, but they are too tight and his skin is already raw. He can't get out of them, not in this position. It unnerves him how relaxed the man beneath him is, and how his eyes trail across Bruce's features with curiosity and something else that he cannot (does not want to) identify. The gaze on him makes him jerk against the cuffs once more.

"Uncuff me," he says, but it is so, so hard to keep up the façade now, "and I will not call the police." Batman wants nothing more than to growl his most vicious command and pummel the man pressed against him.

The Joker laughs in delight, and before Bruce knows what's happening, the clown's hands are beneath the sheets, smoothing up the back of his naked thighs and – Bruce's body tenses as if pricked by a thousand needles, his lips parting in complete and utter shock, as fingers splay against the curve of his cloth-covered cheeks and squeeze firmly.

The action is so unexpected that Bruce's hips jerk forward and into the man before his body has any say about it and suddenly there is a tongue in his mouth that definitely (definitely) isn't his own, scarred lips assaulting him.

And Bruce Wayne does nothing. Neither does Batman. He can't, he is paralyzed with shock and not even the Joker's biting kisses can tear him out of it. Batman is choking, or maybe he is drowning, he isn't quite sure which. The madman's mouth is warm and wet, but there is nothing, absolutely nothing soft about the kiss. It is the kiss of some wild creature, lunging at the opportunity it was so foolishly, carelessly given. Batman tastes his own blood, and feels the Joker's paint smear across his face.

It is only when the Joker's hips jut upwards, grinding pointedly, impatiently, that Bruce finally snaps out of it. Jerking his head backward as if stung, he stares down at the Joker for a moment, all wide eyes, flaring nostrils and abused lips.

In the semi-darkness of the room, Bruce sees the Joker smirk and then, then feels something he knows he will never be able to unfeel, or forget. The Joker is hard, and he too, he too is (no, no, no) – and suddenly the madman beneath him starts shrieking with triumphant, ugly laughter.

Shame floods Bruce, and Batman defends himself in the only way he knows: jerking his head back, he then pushes forward with all his force and smashes his forehead against the Joker's.

The laughter cut off abruptly, but Bruce doesn't move. He stares down at the Joker's unconscious face, the only sound in the room his own ragged, panicked breathing. The frantic beat of his heart is excruciating.

It takes him about two seconds to scramble off the smaller man, his own hurried movements nearly making him slip off the bed completely. The handcuffs dig into already raw skin, drawing blood at last. Bruce shivers, and hates himself for it. His eyes keep flicking back to the Joker, no matter how many times he tells himself not to look. But Bruce feels sick, so very sick, and he cannot explain what just happened, does not want to.

The longer it takes Bruce to get the handcuffs off him, the more ashamed, the more shaken he feels. At last he succeeds, but there is no victory in this. The Joker and Batman have wrecked the city with their destructive chasing game for months now but this – this is unacceptable, sickening, wrong.

This will cost him his sanity, and that cannot happen. Gotham still needs the Batman, and so does Bruce. He will not let the Joker destroy him, or manipulate him. He will not let the Joker in.

Reaching for his cellphone, Bruce Wayne casts one last glance at the Joker's (no longer smirking) face and, with great hesitation, dials the police's number. It is time to take the madman off the streets – and out of Bruce's reach – once and for all.

Reviews are love.