A/N: Warning of mentioned attempted sexual assault. Nothing graphic, it's just being discussed. And to cheer you up you get Bruce and Joker making out on the couch. But you have to read to the end bc I'm evil like that ;)

His fingers graze, whisper soft, against the smooth flesh. He's enraptured by his skin, the number of scars it can contain and bruises it can heal. It's late, after three, and Bruce has a board meeting in the morning and another lie to conjure to appease Alfred's worried face. He tries to ignore both, tries not wince as whimpers escape his lover's scarred mouth. He trails his calloused hands through blonde-green curls, over his bare torso. Deep purple contusions blossom just under the Joker's flesh brought by fist made to break. Bruce never means to break him. He knows the Joker is already a shattered mosaic.

"It's not your fault Bruce," a voice says behind him, the timber rough and warm. Bruce turns to see Jonathan leaning his tall body against the doorframe. He needs to shave; brown stubble protrudes from his jaw and cheeks. In his large hands he holds a thick book and his glasses. Bruce barks a bitter laugh, his fingers stilling.

"Then whose fault is it?" he asks, voice low as his dark eyes flow from Crane's gaze to the Joker's lithe body. The madman's eyes are closed, his breaths rough and uneven. "You told me not to bring him there. He told me not to bring him there." He gazes out the window, thanking whatever being he's stopped believing in that there is no blurry signal tonight. "If it's not my fault, then whose is it?"

"The guards," Jonathan answers, stepping further into the room. "Those animals at Arkham who put their hands on him, those bastards. It's their fault. Not yours." He sits down on the bed, sighing as he gazes at their lover.

"Jay," he says, brushing his lips against his forehead. "Why do you always have to make us worry about you?" Bruce reflects on how much Jonathan has changed since he'd first met him. He's broader now, no longer as thin, no longer full of fear. He is protective of the clown almost to a fault and he's smarter about his crimes, still dealing his toxin but remaining underground and on the run.

"What's the book?" The vigilante asks, peering at the volume.

Jonathan manages a rough chuckle, crawling further into the bed and guiding Bruce with him.

"When Joker and I were in Arkham, we were put in a cell together. The guards thought it was funny. They thought we would kill each other but the opposite happened. And we wreaked hell when they tried to separate us. Anyway, I would steal books from the library and read to him some nights. He'd never tell you this but he's terrified of thunder storms so we read a lot of books. And one day some guards tried to touch him in the showers and he almost killed one of them. The others beat the shit out of him and wouldn't take him to the infirmary. That night I read him Edgar Allen Poe and he said it was his favorite so I found it and bought it for nights like this."

Bruce stares at blanket as Crane talks, allows his voice to sooth the nugget of guilt inside of him.

"Well maybe he wasn't afraid of thunderstorms," Crane continues, fingering a particularly ugly bruise on the Joker's collarbone. The green-haired man shifts, trying to either bury further into the contact or break away. "The storms are loud there since we're near the water so it's hard to hear when patients yell for water or…"

"Scream for help," The billionaire finishes, quietly. "Jonathan…" He doesn't know what he planned to say. The criminal's name hangs heavy in the silence.

Jonathan looks at him, brown eyes bright and understanding. He sighs, the sound shredded and worn, and guides his lover's hand to the Joker's hair when he starts to fidget. They both feel chaos embodied calm under their fingertips. "No, Bruce. They've never sexually assaulted him and no, nights like this don't happen a lot but they do happen. He can handle this. He knows what he signed up for." Then softer, but assured, his fingers rubbing soothing circles on the billionaire's wrists. "We all know what we signed up for."

He kisses him and turns out the light.

Later, it's a little after six and the sky seems to be bleeding pastel sunrise, the room is flooded with light. Bruce has not slept. He sits in the living room, large hands pouring over revenue documents and audit findings, how Fox is keeping all the spending for their "army venture" under wraps to avoid another Coleman Reese situation, Arkham blue-prints. He has too many things to focus on, a board meeting in two hours that he knows he won't make and a worried surrogate father in a vast and empty house.

He considers leaving, making more coffee, watching TV, but his thoughts are whirling too much. He wills his eyes to focus on the numbers displayed on the wrinkled white paper, wishing everything in life were that black and white. He hears footsteps creaking down the stairs and he is already prepared to tell an excuse to a worried Jonathan. But it isn't Jonathan.

The Joker stands a few steps from the bottom groggily fisting his eyes. "I was, ah, thirsty," he says, his throat a bit rough to prove it but his voice still containing that nasally twang. He walks the last few steps and pauses again, staring at the piles of papers littering the coffee table.

He's dressed in only one of Crane's Oxford shirts, the first button undone, sleeves pulled up to his elbows and a pair of purple boxers. He walks over to Bruce and straddles his lap, flashing a smile. Those deep green eyes bore into Bruce's saying so much and nothing, taking in everything and Bruce does not like feeling this exposed. He focuses instead on the Joker's thin legs, the hips shifting underneath his grip.

"It's not your fault ya know," The Joker says, tone surprisingly serious and Bruce cannot bear to look at him.

"Have you been talking to Johnny?" he asks, but the Joker shakes his head like a child, nuzzling into the vigilante's shoulder and inhaling deeply.

"Nope. Johnny's in the shower and I just woke up. But come on, a blind man could see you're feeling guilty and I'm saying don't. I'm a big boy Bruce and I can handle whatever I get myself into and as much as you may hate it, you have to keep putting me in there."

Bruce yells a protest and the Joker kisses him, sudden and hard, wrapping his arms around his lover's neck and breaking it just as abruptly. "I know you don't want to. Trust me, I do, but it would look mighty suspicious if suddenly you couldn't catch me anymore don't ya think? We all got jobs to do Bruce and yours just happens to be putting bad guys in Arkham and I'm definitely a bad guy."

"You're not all bad," the billionaire says, only half-joking, his lips planting kisses on the Joker's throat. The clown shifts, moaning as Bruce's hands only press harder against his hips, pressing against the bruises and keeping him in place. He feels Bruce's hands brush under his shirt, stroking the tender skin, his hardening nipples. He whimpers, sinking his teeth into his lover's throat, eliciting a moan as he begins to rock against the vigilante's lap.

"Bruce," he says, breathless, urgent, "Come to bed. I wanna make Jonathan all dirty again." The grin he offers is feral, and manic, and wanting. Bruce is mesmerized by it, the destruction and love that smile seems to hold simultaneously. He allows that smile to make him rise from the couch, that smile to lead him up the stairs, that smile to assuage his guilt because he knows they all know exactly what they signed up for.

A/N: Well that's it. Hoped ya liked it because these boys are my ultimate OT3 and I have so many ideas for this series! Reviews are greatly appreciated and don't be afraid to shoot me reviews or PMs with requests. I'm thinking the next one will be Jonathan having a panic attack or something like that. Jonathan just needs to be taken care of with him having to constantly take care of a guilty billionaire and a destructive clown. Am I right?