The walls were glossy, stained with blood and stale urine and musty failure. The lights above his head shone overly bright and fluorescent, constantly flickering and stabbing his retinas. Two cops walked him down the corridor, one looking like he would piss himself, the other clearly wanting to shoot him. He couldn't decide which would be better.
Jim Gordon was standing outside the room, face worn like old jeans and mouth set in grimness. The coffee in his hand was stone cold but that didn't stop him from taking a sip before nodding the cops away.
"What's he planned now?" His cape rippled as it settled like churning black water on the dirty floor.
"We don't know," was the commission's hushed reply bathed in something that wasn't exactly shame. "He said he needed to see you or else. This was the only place Gotham PD and Arkham officials could agree on."
The stiff nod that followed had nothing to do with the cowl as he stepped in front the interrogation room entrance. The door unfurled its' locks with a thick grating whine and he stepped in the room, preparing himself.
The medium sized space was dimly lit and smelled like old paper and spilled blood. The guard stepped aside with a crude grin, wiping the sweat from his brow. His zipper was down and there was something pooling on the floor that Batman didn't want to think about but did. And the son of a bitch had the nerve to run his hands through the mop of disheveled green hair as he walked out the door.
"We'll be on the other side," Gordon said quietly, eyeing the Joker with poorly concealed contempt. The door closed with the same, depressing whine and Batman knew half the police force was crammed into the viewing room on the other side of the glass, waiting to see the Joker get torn apart. It reminded him of Romans watching their damned get eaten by lions.
"Joker," Batman growled but the man in front of him didn't look a thing like the crazed sociopath he'd thrown in Arkham eight months prior. The Clown Prince looked up from kneeling, mated bottle green hair falling away and revealing his garish, make-up covered face. A splotchy purple bruise was visible through the white greasepaint on his cheek and his eyes shone red-rimmed and bloodshot but whether from fatigue or tears, the vigilante couldn't tell. The way he constantly averted his eyes and the current submissive position made rocks roll in the other man's stomach.
"Batman." That was it. No leering grin, no joke about his one phone call, no laughter that's shrill with insanity. His green eyes glistened, dull and empty, wrists bloodied and knuckles bruised. Like he'd already been through his fair share of hell before the Bat even walked through the door.
"What do you want?" He stepped closer and the clown shuffled back, reflexively, instinct. This close he smelled of greasepaint, sweat, cheap gasoline, at least a dozen Alphas, and something else entirely: complete, submissive Omega. And that made him pause. But he was certain that under all those Alphas, the greasepaint, the insanity, was the clean teasing scent of an unclaimed omega.
Joker didn't answer the question, didn't even stop looking at the floor but he did spit suddenly and it pooled thickly as it settled. Then in a heartbeat he was puking all over himself and the concrete ground. The acrid stench hit the masked man's nose as the Joker spit up like a pitiful, demented child and wiped his split ruby lip on the back of his restrained hand when he was finished. He looked sick, disgusted with himself.
And before he realized it, the vigilante was helping the shaking criminal stand. Those green eyes swiveled to his dark brown ones and Bruce could tell that he was confused. He offered no words of explanation though, instead grabbed the madman and dragged him out the door.
Cops were already waiting for them in the gray corridor, yelling out obscenities and guns already drawn as if they'd been waiting for an excuse to shoot both of them at the same time and simply couldn't pass up the opportunity.
"Where are you taking him?" Gordon demanded, nostrils flaring with disbelief. Batman saw the Joker look down at his feet and realized that he smelled like half the Alpha cops standing around them.
"I'm taking him to get cleaned up," Batman replied voice rough, gnarled and angry. "He got sick after your boys decided to play with him for god knows how long."
"He was already a sick freak," One of the cops called out and there's a firm roar of agreement before the Joker leaned almost unconsciously closer to the Bat. And maybe it was the growl or the predatory look in his eyes or maybe the fact that he had his hand clenched around Joker's wrist and not his throat…But the cops let them pass.
"Where are we going Batman?" Joker asked, voice still sounding dead and forced, like he was reading off a script, their script and the disguised billionaire hated every word. He hated the calm, emotionless voice and how compliant the smaller man was being. It made him grit his teeth, made him want to kill all the people who'd ever laid a finger on the clown without his consent.
The soap smelled chemically acidic and the shower had mold but that didn't stop the caped crusader from gently asking the Joker to take off his clothes in the Gotham PD's dank locker room.
Joker looked wary at first, eyes darting around like he expected to be attacked again, but he eventually peeled off the stained Arkham uniform and stepped out of it. His body was lean, built for a gymnast or a swimmer and maybe he could've been in a past life, if no one had ever marked in with a Glasgow smile. In this life though, that smooth skin was covered in bruises, splotching in black and blues then fading to sickly yellowish-green. The majority littered his hips as if someone had to hold him down to—
The vigilante stopped himself as the clown stepped under the heavy spray and closed the curtain behind him. Bruce sat down on a bench and wondered just what the fuck he was thinking helping his enemy. He knew what Arkham could do to its patients, knew that it was a packed nuthouse for sociopathic and otherwise insane costumed freaks and the Joker belonged there. The man on the other side of that curtain was a killer, and anarchist, a criminal. He deserved what he got and even more, deserved to know pain he didn't enjoy.
And yet…
Yet the fact that he was an Omega changed things. Omegas were naturally reactionary beings, not acting without some form of prompting. They relied on their mates and usually got mated after they went into their first heat. Oh shit. No wonder the Joker looked so beat up. An omega going into heat surrounded by criminal Alphas…
And the vigilante would be lying if he said there wasn't something so heartbreaking about seeing the clown's bruised cheek and cuts, the carved grin with no genuine smile to go along with it. Protecting him felt right and maybe it was the god complex talking or that damned compassion that was so constantly his undoing, but he wanted to hold and protect the battered maniac omega.
He broke into a few lockers before he found a towel, a shirt and some sweats. He could hear the Joker scrubbing himself, hear him muttering, humming before finally stepping out, and dripping water like a miserable orphan that got caught in the rain.
The mask was gone, showing off a surprisingly young face, pink skin and puckered scars, a rounded nose dotted with freckles. The hair was mostly rinsed of that street-punk green and dried in soft dirty blonde-greenish curls. His fingers twitched against the rough towel around his bruised hips. His eyes were green and wide, staring at the Dark Knight helplessly.
Damn it if he wasn't traumatized, and damn it all to hell if the sick bastard wasn't beautiful.
With all the other things scrubbed away, the omega scent was more defined. It smelled like cinnamon and gunpowder, leather and sandalwood. Batman brushed his fingers through the blonde curls before he could stop himself and the madman shivered, looking a combination of uncomfortable and pleading. Arkham had turned him scared and compliant, what people thought good omegas should be.
Wordlessly, the dark knight handed him the stolen clothes and the Joker obediently pulled them on. They didn't t fit him, too big and hanging off the malnourished frame, pants pooling at the ankles. It only served to make him look younger and the vigilante didn't want to think of what the guards at Arkham could've done to him if they saw that beautiful face.
"What now bats?" The nasally twang was back along with an actually curiosity and Bruce took it as a good sign but didn't know how to answer so he decided to ask a question of his own.
"Why did you call for me?" He was expecting the "you complete me speech" or for that scarred mouth to split into a sadistic grin and say that he was just bored. He wanted anything to reconnect him to the lunatic who blew up hospitals and made him feel more alive, more needed than anyone else ever could.
The chuckle that follows was weak, tittering on the edge of a sob. "I can't go back there. It's hell on earth. No sense of humor at all."
"They'll take advantage of you," Batman translated. The Joker huffed suddenly looking angry.
"My psychiatrist said I needed an, ah, attitude adjustment and maybe if I got mated then I wouldn't have 'so much pent up energy I felt the need to expel using violence'" he quoted, mouth twisting to a scowl. "Fucking quack."
"Do you want me to protect you?" The question was ludicrous and tasted all kinds of wrong on his tongue. But he meant it. The Joker's eyes snapped to his and a small smile adorned his face.
"Are you forcing me to be your mate Bats?" With the Joker's previous amusement, returned Batman's anger and that made him feel more secure than it probably should have. His fists balled at his sides and he stalked up to the clown.
"No," he rasped using his bulk to trap the other man, "I'm not forcing you to do anything, I'm not like those cops or the workers at Arkham. You choose what you want but there has to be rules."
He realized he was falling into this way too fast like he used to do with his father's cars. Going 90 through residential streets with no seatbelt praying to crash the classic model so that he wouldn't be the only thing broken for once. Having rules solidified him, gave him something to grasp, to refer back to. Joker seemed none too pleased with the idea but simply nodded.
"No killing people," the Bat began, "No taking hostages and no blowing up buildings." The conversation sounded ridiculous to his own ears, like he was trying to domesticate a rabid dog.
"What about abandoned buildings?" Joker's tongue darted out to wet his lips.
"Abandoned buildings are fine. I don't care about petty crimes as long as they're no casualties."
"You're no fun Bruce," The clown huffed.
The Bat immediately stiffened, a dazed nausea filling his stomach. "Did you just—"
"It wasn't that hard to figure out," the clown shrugged, shivering in the dank, cold room. He wrapped the cape around himself and huddled against the vigilante's chest almost timidly, not meeting Bruce's eyes. It reminded Bruce that this man before him wasn't exactly the Joker. He was still hurt and at least partially broken, past experiences telling him not to be stupid and let his guard down so easily.
Bruce exhaled, somehow unsurprised that his nemesis was aware of his true identity, instead feeling something close to relief. Then reality hit him. He was taking the Joker into his home, around Alfred. The joker would be in his life not just as Batman but as Bruce Wayne.
"And what if I say no?"
Bruce exhaled tiredly. "Then…we'll deal with that."
A long stretch of silence followed.
"Are we just gonna sit here all night Brucie?" Joker ventured quietly, still shuddering. The vigilante looked down at his sworn nemesis snuggled between his cape and his chest.
"I have to find a way to get you out of here without getting shot," he answered, surveying the room for any means of escape. The cops were undoubtedly searching for them by now.
"Would it, uh, really be a stretch to say I escaped?"
Bruce mulled it over. It wouldn't be.
"Fine, I'll tell them you escaped." He pulled the cape from the blonde's person. His voice dropped to its trademark snarl. "But if your ass is not in my bed by the time I get home I will not hesitate to drop you back in Arkham and throw away the key."
Joker frowned at the threat and the Bat had to stop the small smirk that threatened to show on his mouth. The criminal rolled up his sleeves with a devious grin, surveying the room like a bank robber would a bank.
"No killing," the dark knight reminded gruffly before stalking down the hall, a vision of black. As he retraced his steps he wondered if he was going crazy. He thought back to his conversation with Crane in that parking garage nearly 2 year ago.
"I don't need any help."
"That's not my diagnosis", the doctor had replied, perpetual smirk on his face.
Maybe he should visit Crane in Arkham. Because leaving the Joker to his own devices with nothing but a firm threat and too big clothes, was definitely anyone's definition of crazy.
But sure enough, by the time the playboy by day returned to the manor completely exhausted and ready to sleep where he stood; a certain homicidal blonde was not in his bed.
And Crane had escaped Arkham the day before.
Finis. Reviews are welcome.