You Complete Me

Bruce stared at him for several uncomfortable moments, unable to comprehend what he saw. It was like his mind had created a barrier, a wall of fire, to fend off the realization of what had actually occurred. But slowly, ever so slowly, it started to worm its way into the cracks. His resolve started to shatter. And, in the end, it was his own body that betrayed him as he extended a hand to touch the blood-soaked blond locks.

Lifeless emerald eyes stared back at him, eternally hazed over with a secret that Bruce would never know. The smile forever etched onto his mouth seemed at little less sarcastic. In fact, if Bruce wasn't mistaken, it looked oddly content. An open bottle of narcotics was in his left hand, the little yellow pills scattered all over the tile floor. How many had he taken? Five? Ten? Twenty? Dried blood marred the bathtub where he had hit his head.

He was shirtless and had on a pair of Bruce's loose sweats, which he wore on the rare occasion that he decided to take an early-morning jog. His other hand rested on his distended abdomen. Five months, the doctor had said. One more month and they would have been able to identify the sex of the child. But now, that was only a distant dream. Jack had killed himself and their unborn child. And all Bruce could do was stare.

Finally, Bruce reached down and yanked the bottle out of Jack's hand. He read the label, blinked, read it again. Vicodin. Easily one of the most addictive narcotics on the market. How Jack had obtained a bottle, Bruce would never know. Jack had sworn off all of that shit when Bruce had welcomed him into his home (and into his bed), so it didn't make sense for him to 'call in a favor' with one of his old cohorts just for a quick fix.

Suddenly, a wave of anger washed over him and he threw the bottle on the ground, watching more yellow pills scatter and the bottle bounce listlessly on the tile. What the fuck had the lunatic been thinking? Bruce knew that he had a brain, no matter how rarely he used it. If this was the Joker's way to further cement society's belief in his insanity, he's gone a bit too far to get the message across. And if it was a prank, it wasn't funny.

Bruce took his lover by the hair and yanked him forward. Blood oozed onto his fingers and the blond's body moved a bit too easily to provide any real comfort. "I don't know what you think, but this isn't funny Jack."

Jack, or, rather, the Joker, continued to stare at him blankly. There was no hint of amusement in his eyes, no snicker as he watched Bruce panic… just nothingness.

"C'mon, Jack. Jack?" Now, there was a little bit of worry in the brunette's voice. "Why would you do this to yourself, Jack? Didn't you… didn't you…" he couldn't force the words out as his throat started to constrict.

Bruce let his lover lay back down and Jack did so without complaint. His head lolled to the side and bobbed, but never once did he make a sound. It unnerved Bruce.

"Didn't you care about the baby, Jack?" Bruce whispered finally, hoping to garner some kind of response.

Silence.

"Didn't you care about me?" All of those times that Jack had said that he loved him, all of them were a lie.

Silence.

"Jack… Jack… Jack…" Bruce was desperate. He shook the smaller man's shoulder, jostling his entire body and causing blood to smear on the bathroom tile. The hand fell off of his stomach and landed palm-up on the floor.

And that's when Bruce saw it. Scrawled on his palm, in the Joker's messy handwriting, were the words look at the mirror. An icy cold gripped his heart as he rose, his hands soaked in Jack's blood, and made his way over to the mirror. Taped to the silver-coated surface was a picture of him kissing Rachel. Underneath, written in blood, were the words you've made your choice, now I've made mine.

Bruce reached out to touch the picture, and when he did, another picture fell out from underneath. It was the baby's latest sonogram. And all of a sudden, it hit Bruce like a ton of bricks. Thinking that Bruce had chosen Rachel over him and the baby, Jack had taken his own life. Unable to face the fact that the only one he had ever loved couldn't return his affection, he had removed himself from the equation. But not before Rachel was dead.

"Jack, Jack no… you don't understand. That kiss… that kiss meant nothing. You? You complete me. Without you, I'm nothing. Batman is nothing. What am I supposed to do without you?"

Unintentionally, Bruce had quoted Jack's own words to him from the first time they had officially met. They were two halves of the same whole, one dark and one light. How could one exist without the other? Blindly now, Bruce reached forward and shook Jack's body ferociously. He cursed the Joker until he had no more air in his lungs, because it was the Joker's insanity that had done this. The Joker's insanity had blinded him and…

His eyes widened when he felt hot tears start to course down his cheeks. "I love you, Jack. I loved you, damn it! Why didn't you trust me enough to come and talk to me? Why couldn't you ask me… why?"

He reached out and closed Jack's lifeless emerald eyes, because he couldn't stare into their icy depths for another moment. It just hurt too much.

Looking at all of the pills scattered across the floor, he knew what he had to do. "I have nobody, Jack. You killed yourself and, even if I cared about Rachel, you killed her too. I have nobody. I need… I need somebody, Jack."

Now, he couldn't even stare into Jack's rich green eyes. Now, he could at least convince himself he was asleep. But that would have been a well-bred lie.

Filling a little cup with water, he took a handful of the pills and swallowed them. "We'll be together forever, Jack. We complete each other."

Wooziness struck him moments later and he had to lie down. Sliding down onto the cool tile, which now felt much-too hot for his liking, he gathered Jack's already dead body into his arms and relished in the familiar scent of hair dye, gun powder, and blood. Jack's cheek brushed his and he felt the perfection of his deformity caress his skin in welcome. This was all Jack had wanted – to feel loved. Bruce could do that, could do that now.

Bruce didn't know what it felt like to die. In the end, he felt Jack's body become heavier in his arms. It only made him hold onto him more firmly, all the more afraid to lose him in the afterlife. And then, his eyes closed and he drifted off into blackness. His arms froze in their protective position around Jack's body, both laying in the blood that had pooled at the side of the bathtub.

OXOXO

"Master Wayne? Master Wayne?" Alfred entered Bruce's bedroom and made his way over to the bathroom, where the door stood ajar. What he saw made his heart stutter and his blood run cold.

Bruce and Jack lay on the floor, enveloped in an embrace of death. Pills were scattered all over the tile floor, some dissolved in the pool of blood by the side of the bathtub, others under the sink and by the door. Jack's head was bloody and he was shirtless, his eyes closed like he was asleep. Bruce looked untouched, aside from the blood on his hands, no doubt from Jack's head wound.

The picture on the mirror told all. Jack had killed himself and Bruce, distraught, had followed suit. With no thought for the consequences of their actions, they had, in a sense, acted like a modern-day Romeo and Juliet. Alfred only shook his head, feeling his heart break for his pseudo-son and son-in-law. The ring box in his pocket felt abnormally heavy now, and he could still remember when Bruce had asked him to hold it until the 'right time.' Now, that day would never come.

Because Bruce and Jack completed each other, and it was impossible for one to exist without the other.