By the time they pulled up to the front entrance of Wayne Tower, a record forty minutes had gone by. Kowalczyk had taken every available alternate route, often looping around or doubling back on himself before heading in the direction he wanted, and Bruce, after going through the arduous process of removing contacts without a mirror and in a moving car, had been mildly shocked at how little he recognized of his own city. They reached the curb and Kowalczyk parked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Thanks," Jude grunted, before tugging his hand out from beneath Bruce's for the second time and getting out of the car. Kowalczyk waved at him through the busted window, then turned to Bruce.

"I can come pick him up in the morning if you — "

"No," Bruce said, maybe too fast, but Kowalczyk didn't comment. "No, I can take him home. I know where he lives."

Now Kowalczyk did grin, but all he said was, "Right," and then, "Listen, it — you were really cool tonight. I'm sure the boss appreciated you not falling apart, or whatever."

Bruce glanced over. Jude was standing beneath the awning, arms folded as he waited. Half his greasepaint had smeared off over the course of the evening and without his guns and his gloves and his fire, even in his overcoat, he looked — smaller. Almost lost.

"I hope so," Bruce said. "Night, Kowalczyk," and then he slid out too. He slammed the door shut — it made an unpleasant sound in the hinges — and watched as the car disappeared down the street. Then he walked up to Jude. He put a hand on his shoulder and felt how tense he was, but even alone he knew better than to bring it up. He gestured at the door:

"Want me to give you the royal treatment? Hold the door and help you inside?"

Jude snorted. "Carry me over the threshold — " he muttered, and Bruce laughed. He pressed the code in, the doors unlocked, and they walked in together. Jude's eyes scanned over the ceiling and the doorframe as though it was his first time seeing either; his tongue darted out to wet at his mouth. He looked moderately uncomfortable for some reason, and Bruce tried to get them to the elevators as fast as he could, but as they crossed the lobby Marcus, the night security guard, approached. He glanced between them with an expression of poorly concealed befuddlement. Cautiously, he said,

"Good evening, Mr. Wayne," though it was probably about four minutes to midnight. "You are — certainly coming in late today."

It was why Bruce disliked using the front entrance. His schedule as Batman had generally kept him out most of the night and his time working with Jude was proving to be much the same. Of course Alfred was used to it, but the rest of the staff were wholly unaware. Normally Bruce used the elevator accessible through his private garage but he'd never intended on letting either Jude or the rest of the gang know about it — he wasn't sure it was a good idea, and anyway this was probably just a one-time thing; likely Jude wouldn't be coming back. Hence the lobby, and hence facing Marcus, who was still looking from Bruce to Jude and back like he thought he might be hallucinating.

"Yeah, I know," Bruce said. "I'm sorry; I had an out of state dinner with the reps from Neumann and we had a couple of drinks after and lost track of time."

Jude snorted. Bruce ignored him. He offered Marcus his best 'stupid Bruce Wayne' smile, but Marcus was still glancing dubiously towards Jude, who looked back at him with mocking amusement.

"And your — " Marcus hesitated. "…Guest?"

Bruce drew in a breath. "Look," he said, "I know it's late, and I know this is a little — unusual. In the morning, when your shift is over, you should call upstairs and ask for my butler, Alfred Pennyworth. I'm sure he can help compensate you for any inconvenience myself and my — "

"Very dear friend," Jude supplied helpfully.

" — companion may have caused you," Bruce finished. He kept up the charming smile, and the eye contact, and after another few moments Marcus sighed, and walked to stand again behind his desk.

"I'll be sure to do that," he said. "You have a nice night, Mr. Wayne."

"The same to you, Marcus," Bruce said, and led Jude over to the elevators. His key pass would've gotten them to the penthouse suite without having to bypass security but of course he hadn't brought it with him and as such had to enter the employee code and head up like everyone else. Once the doors had slid shut Jude leaned against the wall, his reflection warped and weirdly distorted in the metal, and said,

"That would've gone a lot faster if you'd just let me get my knife on his throat."

Bruce sighed. He thought Jude was joking, but he wasn't quite sure. He also thought perhaps he agreed with Jude, and somehow that made it worse. "Really?" he said. "How would that have looked? CEO of the company walks into the lobby with the fucking Joker and lets him just threaten all his employees — "

"Oh, right," Jude said, and rolled his eyes. "Sorry. I forgot how boring you are when you're pretending to care."

Bruce huffed, watching the digital numbers climb steadily up. "I'm not pre— "

"You rushed to get a knife in that little shit Coleman Reese as soon as he stopped being relevant," Jude said. "You're pretending to care." He was not quite smiling, still leaning on the railing, arms folded, and in spite of everything that had gone on that evening —the lingering warmth on Bruce's thigh where he'd had his hand clasped for the better part of an hour; the images that kept flashing in Bruce's mind of all the ways Jude could have died — Bruce discovered that a small part of him was still capable of hating the Joker.

The elevator hit the fortieth floor, which was the highest employees could go. The doors slid open and Bruce sighed. "We have to switch," he said, tensely, walking out. "My penthouse has a separate elevator." It required a code separate from the rest of the building; to date, only Rachel, Alfred, Lucius, and Bruce's society guests had ever been told what it was. It still mildly baffled him how Jude could have gotten up there twice, since he changed it monthly, but then Bruce was hardly a stranger to hacking. He punched the second code in and they stood for a moment in silence waiting. When the doors slid open they stepped on, and Jude's distorted reflection appeared yet again, the smudged makeup around his eyes like pits in the chrome.

"Wayne," Jude said, as they rode up.

Bruce sighed. When they hit the forty-second floor the elevator stopped again, and Bruce led Jude to the door which led to his actual, private quarters. He scanned his thumbprint and Jude watched with his head slightly tilted. He was looking at the side of Bruce's face as they started up the stairs and finally Bruce said, "What."

"You did really well tonight," Jude said. He sounded like he was forcing the words past some invisible barrier. "You always do — when we're together. You're never pretending then. It's refreshing."

The thing was of course he was right, and Bruce knew it. He was constantly pretending to be the clueless businessman who dressed fine and had a lot of friends. In the past it had always been a relief to slip on the suit, and to stop fucking thinking for a few hours. It was a different sort of relief now, going out with Jude and the others, easing off the billionaire mask and not having to put on another one. Releasing all his tension into unobstructed space. But it was relief. He turned a little to face Jude, and he let his face show the agreement he couldn't voice. Jude's mouth twitched. Then they moved on.

They bypassed the floor where Bruce kept his exercise stuff — gym, pool, indoor track — and then at last they reached the top floor, and Bruce and Alfred's rooms. Bruce scanned his thumbprint again and opened the door, feeling a wash of relief when Alfred did not appear in the kitchen. He had no idea how he would explain it. He was already sort of dreading Marcus placing his call in the morning.

When the door shut behind Jude Bruce turned to face him. He looked the same as he had at the curb: strangely misplaced, and off balance. His eyes were darting from one corner of the room to the other as though searching for an exit. Bruce walked to the sink rather than try and crowd Jude; there was blood under his nails, somehow. As he scraped at it he said,

"Do you want — anything, drink or food or — "

"I'm good," Jude said. He was drumming his fingers on the kitchen island, staring at the refrigerator, and the stove beside it. Then: "Actually — do you have any cigarettes."

"Sure," Bruce said. "They're in, uh — they're that way," gesturing to the hall that led to his room. "Alfred doesn't know I smoke."

Jude laughed. It was his nicer one, and Bruce felt the tender uncertain thing take a shaking step forward. He hadn't realized he was moving with it until his hand closed over Jude's arm. Through the thick wool of his overcoat his skin felt warm. Jude looked at him, and Bruce let his hand slide down, until he could tangle their fingers together. His heart was racing.

"Come on," Bruce said, and walked with Jude down the short hallway and into his room. It was about as big as Jude's entire apartment, and he'd never really been consciously aware of that until now, looking at it through Jude's eyes. He shut his door, feeling his face heat up. Alfred must have set the dimmer switch, because the light was quiet, a pale rose shade like the earth after rain at dusk. Even with the windows exposed to the city as they always were the room was still enveloped in an intimate, crepuscular glow. Jude tugged his hand gently free from Bruce's and walked around, examining everything in the mildly curious animal way he had: running his fingers over the furniture, looking at the television from all its angles, testing out the sofa by throwing his coat over the back of it. Eventually he made his way to the bedside table and Bruce told him the cigarettes were in the drawer. Jude extracted the pack, withdrew one, tossed it to Bruce. Bruce took one too, and they walked out to the balcony to smoke. The wind from the river cut Bruce's skin.

"Forgot the lighter," he muttered, and started to go back in, but Jude was pulling one from his trouser pocket. Bruce turned so that the wind was at his back and held his cigarette out, cupping it with the other hand. Jude stepped forward, flicked the lighter on. The flame jumped between them, a sharp warmth on Bruce's fingers, highlighting the skin in orange and yellow. When it touched the cigarette the paper crackled. Bruce inhaled, watching the end curl and burn. The glow of it reflected in Jude's eyes as he lit his own cigarette, turning them nearly black in the dark. He kept them on Bruce as he inhaled, his scars pulling inward with the motion of his lips. Bruce stared at his mouth. When he drew the cigarette out the end of it was smeared with red. He turned away to blow the smoke out, and they watched it trail over the side of the building, vanishing into the city.

"I meant it, you know," Jude said, after a while. He was still turned away from Bruce, and his voice had changed pitch, grown lower and hoarser. Bruce had noticed before that Jude dropped the sharp nasal quality almost entirely when they spoke alone. The first time he could remember noticing had been in the interrogation room, back in July. "That you did well tonight."

Bruce dragged on his cigarette. The air burned going down his throat, like swallowing a campfire, but it felt good, too. Perhaps it was the forbidden aspect of it that heightened his enjoyment, because the taste was still acrid and hot, but he enjoyed it all the same. He didn't want to look too closely at why. He had enough things to dissect already.

"Thanks," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, though."

Jude raised his eyebrows.

"I mean because I invited you over here, and you probably didn't really want to — "

This earned him a snort. The ember at the end of Jude's cigarette flashed gold in the dark. "You think I'd be here if I didn't want to?"

Bruce bit his mouth. "…No," he admitted, and Jude nodded. His hand was tight around the guard rail.

"No," he agreed. This seemed to be the end of the conversation, but Bruce couldn't quite let it go. It was quiet for maybe five seconds, and then he said,

"So you don't mind that I — "

"Wayne." Jude blew out a column of smoke, tilting his neck straight back, reminding Bruce of Tyler Durden at the beginning of Fight Club. "Fuck. I already said it's fine. What, do you want a notarized letter or something?"

Bruce's face grew warm. "No, I just — "

"It was maybe a little bold to ask in front of Kowalczyk," Jude said. "But he won't say anything, and neither would any of the others." Now he hesitated, just a little; the paint on his mouth was badly smudged where it had run off onto the cigarette, and he was looking out over the city. "Anyway," he said finally, sounding a little amused, "I'm starting to realize you've got a really interesting possessive streak under that black-tie exterior, and I'm curious to find out how deep it runs." He slid his hand down the rail until the tips of his fingers were touching the tips of Bruce's. The slight contact jolted up Bruce's arm, and his mouth went totally dry. He felt sudden searing pain against his other fingers, and realized almost too late that his cigarette had burnt down to the filter. He pitched it over the side of the balcony and slid his other hand up Jude's arm and into his hair. He turned his head so that they were facing each other and stepped forward once, and then again, until they were nearly breathing the same air.

"It's pretty fucking deep," he admitted, and was shocked at how hoarse and fucked he already sounded, but Jude just laughed. His eyes dropped to Bruce's mouth, and he reached up and touched the back of Bruce's hand where it rested against his head.

"Good thing you're sticking around, then," he said, "so I can take my time with you," and then he pulled Bruce forward a little, or maybe Bruce himself leaned in, and they were kissing. Bruce tightened his fingers in Jude's hair and brought his other hand up from the railing to rest against Jude's hip, but quickly he discovered that it wasn't enough and he dragged his hand up Jude's side, over his ribs, until he was cradling Jude's jaw. He bit his mouth and sucked on it, dragging his tongue over Jude's and over the roof of his mouth. He kissed him with biting almost rough kisses until he tasted blood but he didn't care, he kept going. He kissed him until it felt like he'd devoured his mouth. When he pulled away his lips felt swollen and hot and Jude's were kiss-slick over the paint and they were both breathing hard. Jude was grinning; he flicked his cigarette over the side of the building and he said,

"Yeah, Wayne, like that,"

and then he was kissing him again, soft little kisses to the sides of Bruce's mouth and longer, deeper, more aching kisses to the center. He was kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, sucking Bruce's lip into his mouth, running his fingers through his hair. By the time he pulled away the second time Bruce was more than half-hard. Jude reached up and touched his mouth with his fingers smelling of blood and nicotine.

"Whoops," he whispered, laughing a little, and Bruce looked at his reflection in the dark window and laughed too, because Jude had transferred his paint onto Bruce's face. His lips were smeared in red unevenly and his chin and part of his jaw were streaked with white. Jude rubbed his thumb across Bruce's mouth, and Bruce parted his lips to catch the filthy, strangely uneven skin in his teeth. He felt the nail snag against the inside of his lip and bit down, very gently, on the pad. They stood like that for a moment, staring at each other in the chilled wind, forty-four floors above the city, Jude's thumb in Bruce's mouth. Bruce could feel his heart racing and racing like he'd run a marathon. At last Jude withdrew his hand, sliding it down Bruce's jaw.

"You're so fucked up," he murmured, but it wasn't cruel. Anyway it was true; Bruce was fucked up. He was fucked up, and he was fucked, tilting his head into Jude's touch, tasting him in his mouth. He took Jude's other hand in his, nodded towards his room. Jude's mouth twitched, and they walked inside. The bed was almost immediately to the right of the door walking back in, and Jude went to it, rounding the bedside table, trailing his fingers over the edge. He was almost absently tactile with Bruce's things, as though he'd owned it all for years and was merely greeting it after a long absence. At the side of the mattress he began to unbutton his clothes: first his vest, which he shrugged off, then the shirt. It fell away from his shoulders, the pale skin and its map of scars, crossing each other, cartography from hell. The muscles were tight in his neck when Bruce walked to him and pressed down. His jaw was clenched, but of course Bruce knew better than to ask. He leaned in, kissed the tense line of it. Jude almost smiled, or something.

"Can't get enough, huh," he said, and turned in Bruce's arms. They stretched out over the bed, Bruce pressing Jude against the headboard, kissing his neck, feeling his pulse racing beneath his lips. He held Jude's hand taut against the sheets, stretching his arm up over his head, pinning him as he worked him open. He pushed Jude's knee up with the other hand, forcing his legs apart, and fucked into him on his sheets, his very clean, very expensive sheets which he couldn't give a fuck about, at all. Jude was arching against him with his eyes shut and his mouth slack. He was working his hand on himself and Bruce watched his strokes get more and more jagged the closer he got. He was filthy, soaked in sweat and blood and it was on Bruce's sheets and he just didn't care.

He let Jude's wrist go to grab him by the hips, and he pulled out long enough to half-stand, balancing himself, one foot on the floor, one knee bent against the bed frame, and he pulled Jude to him by his hips and thrust in again, all at once, slick slide of movement. The sound Jude made Bruce heard in his dreams for three days. He fisted the sheets and jerked himself and Bruce could feel the tension coiling in his own spine, the heat and pressure building and building at the base of his stomach, and the response in Jude's body, the way he curled himself and breathed out ragged and choppy breaths. Bruce's thrusts were growing erratic and he could hardly hold himself upright and then Jude's thumb slipped against his own slit and he came, spine bowing inward, stomach muscles clenching, mouth red and slick and open, bitten from his own teeth. Bruce bent over him while he was still coming and kissed him fiercely, their mouths sticking together. Jude hooked a leg around his waist and Bruce could feel him shivering, coming down from it, and the tension uncoiled all at once and spread out from between his legs in tight heat as he came, hard, shoving into Jude, so that his body jolted and he shouted in genuine, uncontrolled surprise. Bruce pulled out slowly, savoring the feeling of Jude's ass trying to keep his dick inside. He stretched himself out on the bed, pulling first his arms in, then his legs. He closed his eyes, pressed his mouth to Jude's shoulder. He was exhausted.

Jude lay beside him for a long time, a lot longer than Bruce had expected him to. At last he nudged Bruce lightly with his hand and murmured, "Is it all right if I use your shower?" Bruce nodded, not really thinking about it. He felt the weight shift on the bed as Jude got up, and then there was a kiss pressed to his temple, and then the sound of Jude's footsteps receding across the tile floor. The bathroom door shut. The water had started running before Bruce began to feel the residual guilt from earlier seep back in.

The thing was that this wasn't usual behavior for Jude. At his own apartment they would fuck around on the filthy narrow mattress, and then they would lie together and share a cigarette, or else stumble into the den to watch a little bit of television, or else Jude would go call his contacts and Bruce would put on a record and snort a few lines. But he didn't make a habit of showering. He was a filthy fucking person; it was part of the appeal, weirdly, to have him covered in several layers of sweat and the grime and dirt of the city. He just had shitty hygiene; he made more of an effort to brush his teeth if he knew he would be spending time with Bruce — which in and of itself was… a lot — but for the most part Bruce knew that unless there were visible bloodstains on his clothes he wasn't going to change them for at least a week.

And yet. He was in Bruce's shower right now, using his soap, probably making a face at the selection of body washes he had, and likely ignoring his shampoos and conditioners. He was washing off the dirt from his skin and the blood from his hair and under his nails and the sweat and all of it because he was at Bruce's house. They'd fucked around on Bruce's thousand thread-count sheets and Jude had decided, for whatever reason, that dirtying Bruce's bed was not the same as dirtying his own. In short he was making an effort for Bruce, or some semblance of it; he was dragging himself through extra steps, slouching towards Bethlehem, and Bruce —

— Bruce was lying to him.

It was the same thread of guilt he'd felt earlier in the evening when Kowalczyk had opened up to him about Gatsby, or when Cornell and Reznor bickered and teased each other in front of him. He was only doing his job; it was just a job. Getting emotionally involved with the gang as a whole hadn't necessarily been part of the original plan, but he'd thought it was good this way because it meant they trusted him, it meant they were more likely to open up to him about underworld activities. Getting Jude in bed with him would mean deeper intimacy, which of course in turn would mean deeper secrets revealed. If he was emotionally involved and got a little confused about it then he'd play his role even more convincingly. He remembered coming to that conclusion at some earlier juncture, and then shelving it and letting it collect dust while he ran off and committed murder and fucked the city's most dangerous psychopath. It was only ever supposed to have been part of the job. It was what he'd set out to do. It was saving the city —

— except Jude was in his house, and there was nothing about the city in that at all. He was in Bruce's ostentatious fucking house, using his ostentatious fucking bathroom, having sex with him in his ostentatious fucking bed, and none of it was necessary. Bruce had already far surpassed his quota of what he "had" to do to set things to rights. Jude was the Joker, and he was using Bruce's things which cost money, and he hated money, he wouldn't spend it unless it belonged to someone else. Alfred had figured Jude out back in July, though it had taken Bruce until very recently to catch up: he didn't want anything except destruction, and discomfort. If he had a goal it was to make everyone else suffer; he wasn't interested in winning so much as he was in forcing everyone else to lose. He couldn't be hurt because he had zero attachments. He'd figured out how to detach himself from everything. But here he was. In spite of all of it. Here he was in Bruce's house, accommodating what he thought were Bruce's wishes; giving up a little part of himself for the night so that Bruce would feel more comfortable… and all the while, Bruce was lying. He'd never been able to detach, not to that degree, and all of this had started because he'd been so fucking angry with this man, angry because he'd tried to ruin Bruce's city, angry because he'd taken Bruce's best friend, the love of his damn life, Rachel Dawes —

— another pang of guilt, realizing he hadn't thought of her, not properly, not the way he should have, since the day he'd killed Coleman —

He needed to shut this down now. He needed to get out of bed while Jude was still in the shower; get dressed; leave him a note (more lies) saying he'd gone to buy cigarettes or something else plausible and mundane. He needed to go to the bunker and put on the suit and get to Gordon. He needed to hand over all the information he had collected and tell him the truth — not that he was Bruce Wayne, but that he'd run with the Joker's gang in his civilian persona, and that this was the result. He'd tell him what he'd done to Coleman, and to Ainsworth, and now also indirectly to Ashland, and he'd take his punishment, and take all of it, and wait out a sentence while they rounded up everyone — Jude, Cornell, Reznor, everyone Bruce knew; Jude's affiliates, the Richmonds, Ainsworth, Ashland's people — and threw them all in Arkham, or in prison. I did it in the name of justice, he'd tell Gordon, and perhaps while he was telling him he'd convince himself of it again —

The bathroom door opened in a cloud of steam. Jude came out with a towel draped over his shoulders. He was wearing a pair of black shorts which Bruce recognized after a moment as belonging to him. They were tantalizingly loose on Jude. Bruce's eyes stuck on the sharp jut of his hips, the taut abdominal muscles, and every thought he'd ever had was shoved from his head in shattering free fall, like the drop off Lau Corp in Hong Kong —

"I hope you don't mind I borrowed these," Jude was saying, holding the elastic out with his thumb and grinning as he walked forward. He was trailing water on the floor. He'd tied his hair up at some juncture and it fell around the sides of his head in wet dark curls. The majority of it was piled on top in a pale green bun. Most of his greasepaint had come off; there were a few black flecks around his eyelids, and red smeared in the edges of his scars, but otherwise his face was bare, and Bruce could see the freckles on the bridge of his nose. "I just thought it didn't make sense to put my old ones back on after — " He gestured over his shoulder at the bathroom, and Bruce pushed himself up against his headboard and reached out. Jude walked forward until he was at the bed; he dropped his towel on the floor and curled their fingers together, and used Bruce as leverage to haul his leg up and sit on his lap. He set his knees on either side of Bruce's hips and pressed in close.

"Your shower regulates its own temperature," he said. "Did you know that?" His voice was soft in the space between them, and for no reason Bruce wanted to cry. He reached out with his free hand to settle it on Jude's hip. His skin was warm, and pleasantly damp from the shower.

"I know," Bruce said. He watched Jude slowly lift his own free hand to rest it in Bruce's hair, scratching his long nails through it with surprising gentleness. "It's supposed to sense your body temperature and adjust the water accordingly."

Jude snorted. "Fuck's the point of that?"

Bruce shrugged, watching Jude shift a little with the movement. "It maximizes comfort, I guess," he said. "You can set it to whatever your favorite shower temperature is and let it recognize your body based on basic biology stuff."

"Biology stuff."

"Physiology — " Bruce waved a hand. "Whatever. You know."

Jude's mouth twitched. "You've really researched this, I can tell," he said seriously, and Bruce laughed. As his mouth fell open Jude leaned in and caught it with his own, kissing him slowly, stroking his thumb along Bruce's temple. He tasted like Listerine; his whole body was soft and warm from the shower, and Bruce ached. He fucking throbbed with want and with guilt and with something else buried and unidentifiable and he pushed it all down, surging up into the kiss. He disentangled their hands so he could touch Jude's face. His thumb found his scars, and Jude stilled, the way he always did, before exhaling shakily.

"Wayne," he whispered.

"Yeah, Jude."

He didn't pull away from him, but he stopped kissing him, and sort of rested their mouths together. Bruce's eyes were closed, but he could hear Jude's soft breathing, and felt the way he still stroked Bruce's skin, dragging his nails again and again along the round of his skull.

"This was a good idea," he said, after a long time. Bruce had almost started falling asleep, and was startled by the familiar warmth of Jude's mouth against his, the dry catch of skin on skin, and how — safe he felt. That was the most startling part of it all. How fucking safe he felt. "I'm glad I'm here."

Bruce exhaled. His heart hurt. He was afraid of what he might say, how he might look, if he opened his eyes, so he kept Jude close, thumb on his scars, and he murmured back, "You're just happy you could drain my hot water tank," so that Jude would laugh.


"Master Wayne."

Bruce burrowed deeper into the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut. His joints ached distantly in a way that promised full-body stiffness later, and though he was used to it from Batman he still really fucking hated it. It made sitting through meeting after meeting nearly impossible and if he could just ignore the sun on the back of his neck and the voice in his ear he could fall back asleep and —

"Master Wayne." Fingers on his shoulder. Bruce groaned, mouth opening damply against his pillow, and shifted a little towards the center of the mattress. He felt a spine against his fingers, and had about three seconds of alarm before he remembered who he'd brought home the night previous, and why.

Then he realized who was standing over him, calling his name, and suddenly he was wide awake. He shot up so fast he got a head rush. Sometime in the night he'd pulled on shorts, and the sheets were tangled around his waist, but the expression on Alfred's face made it clear he knew exactly what had gone on. Bruce supposed the fact that he and Jude were both bare-chested didn't really help.

"Good morning, sir," Alfred said, a little flat. He was standing beside the bed with very little expression on his face, but Bruce could see the corner of his mouth twisting downward. "I'm sorry to disturb you and your — guest — but I've received a call — "

Oh, fuck.

" — from the night watchman Marcus Bridges. He says that you authorized he should get a raise?"

"I — " Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing his knees up to his chest. Beside him Jude stirred under the sheets and made an indistinct noise into his arm. "Yeah. I told him — when I came in last night with, with — I told him I was sure it was an inconvenience, and he could call you for compensation — "

"Wayne," Jude muttered thickly, "shut the fuck up, I'm sleeping — " He cracked one eye open and twisted his neck a little to glare at Bruce. Then his gaze fell on Alfred, and he raised his eyebrows. The pulse of anxiety that had started up in Bruce's chest when Alfred came in grew instantly worse. Jude had a curious, amused look growing in his eyes and around his mouth and if he said anything —

"I'll be out of your hair in a moment," Alfred said to him. His voice was icy. Bruce's heart plummeted into the floor.

"You must be the butler," Jude said, rolling onto his back. The sheets fell off his waist enough the elastic line of Bruce's shorts was visible. Bruce's face was burning, feverish. Alfred knew those were his. He'd washed them every week for the last year.

"Yes," Alfred said shortly, and then to Bruce: "So I should tell Mr. Bridges to expect — how much?"

Bruce thudded his head against his knees. "Whatever you think is fine, Alfred," he said into the sheets.

There was a long silence after. Bruce thought Alfred had gone away, but he felt Jude's hand crawling up his spine, and then Jude's voice right in his ear, whispering:

"I don't mean to bother you, sweetheart, but your butler is staring at me like he's going to put a knife in my chest," and Bruce jerked his head up to see Alfred still fucking standing there, hands clasped behind his back. He cleared his throat significantly when Bruce looked at him, then walked off in the direction of the door. Bruce groaned, dragging his hands through his hair. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Be right back," he told Jude, before sliding off the mattress. He wrapped his favorite bathrobe around himself and tied it shut, stepped into his slippers, and followed Alfred out. They walked down the hall, past the guest bathroom and Alfred's quarters, and into the kitchen. Alfred was making pancakes with strawberries. On the television the news reporter was covering the mauled mini golf course at Coney Island. Bruce tried not to wince as he watched the camera pan over the smashed frog, the dark bloodstains in the grass.

When at last Bruce felt he could turn from the television, he found Alfred watching him, wearing that same tight, closed-off expression he'd had the night he'd confronted Bruce about the uniform in the Mustang. "Yours, I suppose?" he asked, nodding towards the set.

Bruce bit the inside of his mouth. He'd always found it possible to stand everything except Alfred's disapproval. It had been such a wash of relief when Alfred had at last come to him with that determined look in his eyes and said, Master Wayne, if you're going to don a bat costume every night, I'm hiring a technical advisor.

"Yeah," he said, quietly, and Alfred sighed. He turned back to the stove.

"If I may ask — "

"Do you have to?" Bruce blurted, without thinking.

Alfred's mouth tightened. "I'm afraid so." He drew a deep breath; straightened his shoulders. "What is the Joker doing in your bed?"

Bruce hadn't thought his face could get any hotter. He swallowed, hard. The reporter was interviewing bystanders: And how do you feel about this vandalism? — Well, I think it's awful, just awful… some people have no respect for —

"He's — we're — "

"While you're inviting him into the penthouse, why not just bring him down to the wharfs and show him the bunker? I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see the toys you've accumulated in there — "

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Bruce snarled, startling them both. He flinched at the sharpness of his own voice, and Alfred blinked at him, wooden spoon still stirring in the pancake mix. Bruce breathed out, focusing on the pinch of his nails in his palm. He counted backwards from five, and then he said, "I'm not that stupid, Alfred."

"Oh, no," Alfred said, dropping the strawberries into the pan. "No, you're only sleeping with the Joker, and trying to elbow your way into his inner circle with no backup whatsoever so you can hand over some half-cocked information to Commissioner Gordon — "

"I know what I'm doing," Bruce snapped. "I have everything under control."

Alfred turned off the fire. He took a long time extricating the pancakes from the pan; when he turned to look at Bruce, his eyes were tired. He looked older than Bruce could ever remember seeing him. He looked sad, too, in a way that dragged Bruce backwards kicking and screaming through the years to the long, rain-soaked morning After, and the parade of policemen and reporters and neighbors that had tramped through the manor, and Alfred's hand solid and tight on his ten-year-old shoulder. Alfred had looked exactly the way he did now, when Bruce had dared to look up at him for support.

"Are you sure?" Alfred asked, quietly.

Bruce felt his teeth sink into each other. Pain spiked along his jaw. "Yes," he lied, tightly. "I'm — yes. It's so close, Alfred. I swear. It's almost done."

Alfred just looked at him. He looked for a while; once or twice his face shifted, and Bruce thought he would say something, but in the end all he said was:

"I'll make the necessary arrangements for Mr. Bridges to receive his compensation by the end of the week." Then he took up the plates, handed one to Bruce. The other he carried away into his own quarters. He shut the door behind him, and Bruce heard the lock click. He looked down at the pancake; there was a single strawberry half in the center. Bruce's head swam; he couldn't eat. He tossed the pancake into the trashcan and slipped back into his room. Jude was dressed again in his filthy fucking clothes from Coney Island, the sleeves of his shirt crusted over with sweat and saltwater spray, blood still staining his collar. He was looking at Bruce's burner phone with his mouth tilted up at one corner, and when Bruce walked in he smiled at him.

"I still can't believe Cornell picked this one out," he said. "I gave him fifty dollars and told him to get the one he thought you'd hate the most, but I didn't think he'd actually do it."

"I like it now," Bruce said. He took the phone from Jude's hand and kissed him, slowly, licking along the inside of his lip. When he pulled away Jude's face was flushed, and his smile had taken on a different edge.

"Trying to get me to stay, Wayne?" he asked, and it was teasing, but gentle.

Something hard threw itself against Bruce's ribcage and screamed in his own voice. After a moment he recognized the tender raw being which in the night seemed to have blossomed and grown roots inside him. He likes you, it whispered, fiercely, as he slipped on fresh sweats and a hoodie, and tugged on his running shoes. And you're betraying him.

They walked down the hall together. Alfred's door was still shut, and Bruce hurried Jude through the kitchen and down the stairs. They got on the elevator and went down to the lobby. Without his makeup on Jude was less noticeable, and no one so much as glanced their way as they walked out the front doors and around to Bruce's private garage in the back. He thought about introducing the back entrance to Jude. He didn't think he could do this every single time. Then he wondered why he was assuming there would be a second time. Or why it was something he even wanted.

They got in his Mustang, and Bruce turned the key in the ignition. He'd left the radio on with Jude's cassette still in, and Rossdale's voice snarled out in desperate agony over the speakers beneath the blistering guitar: The chemicals between us, the walls that lie between us, lying in this bed…


Cm ovr.

That was all the text said. Just cm ovr, nothing else, no additional job details, no warehouse address, no kilos, no grams, no numbers, no types of firearms. Bruce — doubled over and breathing hard from five miles on his treadmill — squinted at the screen to make sure he was reading it right. Hesitantly he texted back:

2 ur apt?

No, 2 the moon. Hrd Neil Armys mkng a cmbk.

Bruce rolled his eyes. His sound system was blasting Good Charlotte, for some reason. He was starting to feel tempted to ask Jude for some good grunge albums he could run to, if there were any. Stop bng like Alf, it's weird.

:):):)
u call him alf?

Jst bc we're txtg.
What do u want?

i want u my apt.

Y?

There was a longer pause between texts this time, and Bruce started worrying maybe he'd asked the wrong question, or else that he'd asked too many. He'd shut off the music and was laying himself out for reps when his phone buzzed again:

i need ur hands.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. Is tht wht they call it now?

don't b fkn annoying Wayne
i want ur hands 4 my hair

Bruce was pretty sure this was a typo, but when no corrections were forthcoming, he said, tentatively,

ur hair?

Bingo.

xpln

This time the pause was even longer. Bruce had gotten through three reps of ten when abruptly his phone started ringing, and he almost tore a tendon trying to get to it.

"I'm sick of fucking texting," Jude said, before Bruce could even say hey. "It takes fucking forever and you ask too many fucking questions."

"I'm s— "

"It's really hard to get the back of my hair when I dye it," Jude said. "I need you here."

Bruce wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder and set the dumbbell as carefully as he could back on its stand. "You want me to come over to your apartment so I can — "

" — help me dye my hair, yes, why is this so fucking difficult to understand?"

"It's just — "

"Do you not want to do it, Wayne? Because I can ask someone el— "

"No." Bruce said it more sharply than he'd meant, and Jude snorted.

"That possessiveness of yours runs pretty fucking far, huh?"

Who Rachel spends her time with is her business. Bruce breathed out, pressed his hand down over his stomach. "I just wasn't expecting this," he said. "That's all."

"Of course you weren't," Jude murmured. He still sounded like he was trying not to laugh, and Bruce tried not to be embarrassed. "Look, just get over here, okay? I've cleared my schedule for the afternoon. Nothing to get bombed or sold or whatever."

Bruce bit his mouth so he wouldn't smile. "I'll be there in half an hour."

"What the fuck, why is it going to take you that long?"

"I just finished working out. I'm sweaty, I want to shower."

"Fuck, Wayne." He sounded a little irritated now. "I don't give a fuck about that. Just get your ass to my apartment. Stop being fucking boring. You're gonna ruin my fun if you're clean."

Bruce raised his eyebrows further at the phone. "I'm go— " he started, but Jude had already hung up. Bruce sighed. He pocketed his phone. He slid off the weightlifting bench and headed upstairs where he grabbed a tank and his sweatshirt — he wasn't driving shirtless into the Narrows, whatever Jude said — and the keys to the Mustang. Alfred was conspicuously absent from the penthouse; Bruce suspected he was trying to avoid having to deal with him, which was… fine, it was fine. It was better than the narrow, suspicious looks Lucius had been sending him during work lately, ever since the memorial service. For all that Bruce had tried to show up and talk and seem normal, Lucius must have watched the tapes over and decided he didn't like what he saw, or something. Two days ago he'd cornered Bruce in the foyer of a fancy restaurant they'd been taking the partners to for lunch and asked him why his lower lip was cut open. Bruce ran his tongue over the sore, tannic-flavored place inside his mouth. He hadn't even realized it was still visible.

"It's just that you aren't going — out right now," Lucius said, with one eyebrow lifted. "So I'm just curious as to where that would've originated — "

"I think I hit my face on the kitchen counter when I was getting a snack in the middle of the night," Bruce said, perhaps too quickly. "I really didn't even notice it. Sorry, Lucius." Then he made a point of waving to the partners and heading for their table, and thankfully Lucius didn't bring it up again. All the same he'd rather Alfred's stoic and pointed silences. He didn't think he could lie to Alfred, not like this… and he'd have to be lying, really, because there was no way, there was no possible way he could explain or justify why he was still doing it now, when there was no need, and how it made him feel. There would be no hiding the truth from Alfred, not when it had gotten so deep within Bruce, the tender raw creature split open and screaming for attention —

He headed down to the garage, got in his Mustang. Jude had left his Down on the Upside cassette in the car too, at some point; it was in the glove compartment, and Bruce pushed it in without letting himself think too hard about it. It was just music, it didn't have to mean anything. He pulled out of the garage with Chris Cornell snarling in his ears and his mouth dry at the thought of his hands in Jude's hair, his chest to Jude's back.


Bruce hadn't been to the apartment yet in daylight. It had a gritty, underfed look, the bricks pale and bleached with sun, the ugly gouged-out part with its ragged edges where the bomb had gone off. He parked by the same streetlight as last time — off during the day, with that strange specific rundown grayish look; littered all around with papers and bird shit and cigarette butts — and walked to the front door. It was jammed again, and Bruce had to wait until a woman — one broken heel, smeared makeup, scratched nail polish — came teetering out before he made his way inside. He headed up the stairs and stopped in front of Jude's door. He knocked.

"It's open," Jude called. Bruce twisted the knob; he had to lean his weight into the frame to get it to move, but at last it gave way and he stepped over the threshold and onto the threadbare carpet. Jude was in the bathroom; Bruce could see the light, and half of Jude's profile beyond the door. He tugged off his sweatshirt and dropped it on the floor next to what looked like a crushed mp3 player before shutting the front door and walking into the bathroom. Jude had removed his shirt and was standing in front of the mirror gripping the sink and angling his head oddly. He had the bottle of hair dye— Electric Lizard, Manic Panic line — balanced precariously on the edge of the sink, and a pair of latex gloves. His hair was down against his shoulders, the filthy long roots blending badly with the pale green tips. He was as usual without makeup and Bruce saw a tiny cut in his eyebrow.

"I want — not all the way to the roots," he said by way of greeting, eyes flicking up momentarily to meet Bruce's in the mirror. "Just like — " he touched a spot about half an inch from his scalp. "I don't like how it looks when it's all the way in. Too — " he gestured vaguely. Bruce nodded.

"Too perfect," he said, and Jude rolled his eyes:

"Well, you don't have to say it, Wayne, it's so fucking typical."

"Okay." Bruce cracked his knuckles and rested one hand over the scar on Jude's arm, watching carefully his face in the mirror. It didn't shift, except for a faint tightening in the corner of his mouth. The scar on his arm was healing over; it didn't have the same violent ugly bruised look to it as the first time Bruce had seen it. He wondered again where it had come from but when he opened his mouth Jude said,

"And don't use bleach powder, it comes out too bright and I want — you know, the Sid Vicious look,"

and Bruce knew he knew what he was thinking about, and was trying to divert the conversation. So Bruce allowed it, and snorted. "Strung out and carved up," he said, without thinking, "sounds about right," but thankfully Jude started laughing. He allowed Bruce to drop a kiss on his shoulder. Then he shifted his legs a little and handed him the bottle of hair dye and the gloves.

"So do I just — " Bruce unscrewed the top of the hair dye bottle. The scent of it was sharp, mixing with the others: sweat and blood and unwashed hair, old clothes, Jude's body soap sitting in its container on the edge of the bathtub, and his hand soap (lavender) in its container on the edge of the sink — "how do I do this?"

"Put the gloves on and rub it in," Jude said, "it's not difficult." His eyes tracked Bruce's movements in the mirror, watching, waiting to see what he'd do. Bruce realized he had him bare-chested in front of him, head down, hands bare, no guns, no knives, nothing within immediate reach. He could grab Bruce by the arm and knock his head into the mirror or the sink if he needed but he wasn't as protected as usual and Bruce didn't know what to do with that. He tugged on the gloves, familiar rubbery latex scent, and lathered some dye onto his hands. Jude bowed his head and let his eyes slide shut. Bruce's heart tugged further. They'd fucked already and he wasn't sure why this was different. But it was. Maybe because they weren't fucking. They weren't fucking or doing gang stuff or any of their usual activities. Jude had asked Bruce over for no reason other than to help him dye his hair — which seemed like a pretty flimsy excuse — and he was shirtless wearing nineties-patterned harem pants in his bathroom with his back to Bruce and his neck exposed. Bruce touched the ridges of his spine and felt him tense minutely.

"I could be halfway done by now," he said, voice muffled into the sink.

"You want me to leave?" Bruce asked, watching the dye stain his skin. "Let you just do it yourse— "

"Wayne." In the mirror his eyes opened again briefly, seeking Bruce's. Bruce watched himself watching Jude. "C'mon."

"Sorry, boss," Bruce murmured. He slid his fingers up and curled them in his hair, then stretched them out slowly, massaging his scalp, running them slowly up the side of his head, scratching gently with his nails. The dye bled green over his ears and down the back of his neck. Bruce thought of offering to cover Jude's forehead in case it ran into his eyes but he doubted he'd mind the pain. They were quiet for a while. Then Bruce said,

"Why'd you pick me?"

"You mean to dye my hair? I wouldn't let Cornell or Rez do this; I'm not fucking them, so — "

"No, I mean — to be in your gang. Why'd you choose me?"

"You know why. I told you in October."

"Yes, but — I'm not the only rich guy in Gotham. You could've just as easily made your point with someone else."

"Really. You think so." Jude gave Bruce a gently skeptical eyebrow in the mirror. Bruce shrugged.

"I don't know why not."

"Well, for one thing, none of them are philanthropists like you. I told you I wanted to prove that all the shit you do is just an act and you're really as fucked up as me at your core. But that would have meant fuck-all if you didn't actually pretend you do shit for the city. So you made the most sense — don't go all the way to the roots, fuck, I told you — "

Bruce drew his hands back slightly. He'd just noticed a little patch behind Jude's ear where the hair curled kind of counter to the rest of it against his skin. "Sorry."

Jude sighed. His shoulders were slightly hunched forward. The scars showed up in stark contrast to his skin under the overbright light. "It's okay," he said, quietly. "Feels good."

Bruce made a mental note to give Jude a head massage sometime, if for no other reason than it would probably lead to some interesting activities. He lathered more dye into his palms and dug in again.

" — anyway, yeah, I picked you 'cause you're Bruce Wayne. Your name is everywhere. You're on the cover of the Gazette twice a year and even if you keep this side of you a secret from everyone else it'll still fucking destroy you, the image you have of yourself, and that's, you know, what I wanted."

Bruce bit the inside of his mouth. "What about Harvey Dent?"

"What about him?"

As with most things concerning Jude he had no idea what the fuck he was doing. "He's well-known, rich — he's a politician, that's way bigger than some billionaire — "

"He's also dead. He died back in July. Didn't you know that?"

Bruce had no idea how much ignorance he could actually feign, especially now that Jude knew him relatively well, so he just shrugged. He pushed out a laugh. "I mean, a lot of shit's happened to me since then, I guess it just, I just forgot."

Jude's cut eyebrow quirked up at its edge. There was dye running down his temples and Bruce wanted to take a break and wipe it off but he thought Jude might get annoyed with him for doing it, so he just kept going. The hair was soft despite all the dye and grease, and he liked the way it felt under his fingers. He was caught up in slowly running his nail over a few strands and almost missed it when Jude said —

"Anyway I already corrupted him,"

— but not quite. Bruce didn't exactly freeze but he knew he'd tensed up because Jude looked at him in the mirror. Taking care to keep his expression neutral, Bruce said,

"How?"

"Oh, he wasn't nearly as fun as you, if that's what you're asking — "

"I'm just curious what you did — "

" — or as difficult; I mean I had to coax you into my bed before you'd kill anyone and shatter your whatever, ego, but with him all I did was cancel his honeymoon."

This time Bruce did freeze. He'd asked so he could hear Jude talk about her for whatever sick reason but he still froze and in the mirror through the pointillist toothpaste splatters and the gauzy stripes of dried hair dye he saw Jude wet his mouth. "You did something to his girlfriend?"

"Great job, you're the new Jeopardy! champion — "

"What did you do to her?"

Jude was giving him a narrow-eyed look. "Why the fuck do you care so much?"

Bruce forced his breathing to stay even. "Humor me," he said. This earned him an eye roll, but then Jude said,

"Strapped them both to kind of a fuckton of gasoline and made a choice phone call at the right — ah, fuck, Wayne, what the hell," and Bruce realized he'd been pulling on Jude's hair. He forced himself to settle down, to disentangle his fingers from the snarls and knots and to just fucking breathe for a second. When he apologized Jude shook his head. The look in his eyes took on a different edge, and he smiled crookedly and said,

"It's okay. Still feels good." Bruce's mouth twitched. He reached up and tugged again on Jude's hair, more deliberately this time, and Jude exhaled softly. He rocked his hips against the porcelain of the sink, tilting his body backwards. Bruce leaned in and kissed the side of his neck — the skin tasting of salt, and of the chemicals from the dye — and then he recoated his hands, and started in again.

"Why did you want to corrupt him?" he asked, after a while.

Jude shrugged. His shoulders were tense. "Why the fuck do I ever do anything. I was bored. I don't know. Shit gets annoying if it doesn't change sometimes."

"So you didn't want to prove anything with him the way you're doing with me?"

"I mean maybe." Jude tensed further against him. "I said I don't know, Wayne. Why the fuck are you asking me so many questions about this?"

Bruce's hands stilled in Jude's hair. Slow down, sport, said his father's voice. "I'm just curious," he said, quietly. "You plan everything out so carefully — "

"Oh, you noticed, huh?"

" — I just thought you had an ulterior motive."

"If I had anything it was just to drag him into the gutter with the rest of us." Jude's fingers were drumming restlessly against the sides of the sink, his filthy nails clicking on porcelain. "Like I said. You're much more fun than he was. As soon as I blew up that piece of tail he had he got boring and angsty."

Bruce had to physically force himself not to tighten his fingers in Jude's hair again. "Why didn't you just induct him like you did me, why did you have to include her in it?" He knew how dangerous it was to continue down this line of questioning; he still had no idea why he was even doing it to begin with. He didn't know what he hoped to gain from it and he didn't know what he expected to hear except more things that would piss him off. Maybe he was looking for an excuse to be pissed off; after all the last few times they'd met up he hadn't been pissed off so much at Jude as at himself for not being pissed off, just confused and devouring that cold burning anger that fueled his every action at Coney Island, and in the GCN Studios, and —

"Why do you care? You killed a man you worked with for months and have since essentially told me it made you feel jack shit so why are you getting fucking self-righteous about some bitch you didn't even know?"

Because I did know her, you piece of shit. She was mine, she was supposed to be mine. She was supposed to leave Harvey without hardly even saying goodbye and we were going to move into the manor together once it was rebuilt and she was going to stop thinking she needed anything or anyone else —

"I don't know," Bruce snapped. "I don't know, okay, it's just a question. You didn't need to — " He realized his mistake nearly too late. Jude tensed further against him. His hands had stopped their incessant tapping and were clenched around the edges of the sink. Bruce could see his knuckles straining white beneath the stains of grayish-red paint. Abruptly he spun around and Bruce's hands slid from his hair over his shoulders streaking green across his skin.

"I didn't call you here to tell me I can or can't do shit, Wayne."

"I'm not — "

"You're a killer too, you're just as fucked up as me," Jude snapped. "So quit acting like you're different."

A sliver of understanding began at last to wedge its way into Bruce's mind. "I — "

"What have I told you a million times about not wasting my fucking time, Wayne."

Bruce sighed. "Jude — "

"You can play dress-up in those pretty suits and go to board meetings all you want, pretend like you're normal in front of the cameras, but you're filth underneath, you belong in the fucking gutter, so you're not gonna stand there and cast — "

"I'm sorry." Bruce said it quietly enough that Jude could have pretended he didn't hear, and indeed Bruce was expecting him to; he was expecting the fight to escalate, perhaps to grow physical, for Jude to shove him backwards and kick him out. Instead he stopped talking like Bruce had hit him, shutting his mouth, running his tongue out over his lips. He was trembling faintly; Bruce could feel it where they were still pressed nearly together. He tugged one of his gloves off. The air felt cool against his sweat-slick skin.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, still quiet. "I didn't mean to press. Or to annoy you." He reached up with his free hand and touched the backs of his fingers to Jude's cheek. His thumb caught against the ragged uneven edges of his scar and Jude made a nearly inaudible sound. "You're right; I don't know why I was asking so many questions. It shouldn't matter to me." More lies. "I was just curious, that's all. I wanted to know what, why you would pick someone like Harvey to — and — " He hesitated; he had no idea how to continue this without giving too much away, but Jude made it easy for him, unexpectedly. There must have been something in Bruce's voice, or in his face, which he didn't intend to project, because Jude — searching his eyes with his usual burning intensity — suddenly relaxed. It was just in his shoulders, mostly, but it was there, and then he said,

"Wait — don't tell me. Are you jealous?"

The response that blossomed in Bruce's chest was startling both in its intensity and its sincerity, and Bruce dropped his gaze from Jude's with embarrassment he wasn't entirely faking. Jude laughed; not his feral mocking laugh but the low, warm one Bruce had discovered recently. His own hand came up and covered Bruce's where it still rested against his cheek. When he spoke his voice was that particular pitch he only used when it was him and Bruce — or when it was Batman and the Joker.

"I told you, Dent wasn't nearly as fun as you are," he said. "At least when you brood you're sexy about it," which made Bruce laugh. "And anyway, you never asked me what the second part was."

Bruce forced his eyes back up. "The second part?"

"Uh-huh. You asked why I picked you, I said 'for one thing, because you're rich and well-known — '"

Oh, right. "So, for another thing…" Bruce's fingers were lax under Jude's, letting him idly stroke them. Jude shifted them a little bit to the left so that they were resting over his mouth, over the thin scar at the center of his lower lip. He kissed the tips of Bruce's fingers.

"For another thing," he said, lips moving against Bruce's hand, "I picked you because I already knew you."

Huh, said Bruce, without sound.

"Yeah," said Jude. His mouth was just open and Bruce could feel the wet heat of the inside of his lip. "I couldn't tell you then that I remembered you because I wasn't sure how you were going to be, if you were going to be boring or useful or what. But I wanted you. For so fucking long I'd — " Abruptly he stopped; Bruce could see him drawing back, embarrassed at having shared so much of himself, and he smoothed his thumb down where it was resting against Jude's jaw. The way Jude reacted just to this one small thing — eyes closing, soft noise escaping his throat, leaning forward just slightly — made Bruce feel cavernous and helplessly present. He dragged his hips against Jude's and felt where he was half-hard beneath the soft fabric of his pants. Jude made another noise, this one more choked. He went forward at the same time as Bruce and their mouths met, messy, desperate, clinging. Bruce could feel Jude's heart where it was racing trapped between them. His heart and the quick, unsteady rhythm of his breathing as his broken ragged mouth moved against Bruce's. His lips were dry and cool; he tasted of cigarettes, and of the faint chemical flavor of his greasepaint. He lifted his free hand to curl his fingers in Bruce's hair where it was starting to grow a little long around his ear. Bruce rocked them together again and Jude groaned into his mouth.

When they pulled away from each other they did not go far. Bruce rested his forehead against Jude's and Jude left their mouths just touching. They still had their hands on each other — fingers intertwined, Jude's hand in Bruce's hair — and Bruce was caging Jude against the sink with his other arm. For a moment they stood panting unsteadily into each other's mouths. At last Jude pulled back, gently extracting his fingers from Bruce's. He gave Bruce's hair a light tug before sliding his hand down the side of his neck, and over his arm. He turned back to face the mirror again. His hands curled around the edges of the sink, and he braced his arms. Looking at Bruce's reflection he said,

"You better finish your job, Wayne. I'm not walking around Gotham looking like this."

Bruce took a fresh glove from the box and slipped it on before lathering more dye onto his hands. Streaks of emerald had dried and stained Jude's skin. Bruce wondered how long they would stay there. If he'd see him like this again before they faded, or if Jude would touch himself at night while also touching them and thinking of Bruce, of his hands on him, their mouths moving together in desperate tandem.

"Sure, boss," Bruce said, and slid his fingers again into the tangled mess of Jude's hair.


Some time later they were sitting on the couch together watching Rugrats and waiting for the dye to settle. Once Bruce had finished massaging it into Jude's hair he'd stripped off the gloves and spent a while trying in vain to get the dye off his skin. Jude wrapped a towel around his shoulders and walked into the kitchen to set a timer. "I don't really need you for this next part," he'd called, and Bruce assumed that was his cue to leave, but as he switched off the bathroom light and headed out Jude added, "There's a nineties throwback marathon on Nickelodeon, though, if you're into that."

"Well — "

"You probably didn't have much opportunity to watch nineties cartoons, huh?" Jude wandered back into the living room absently tapping his nails against the timer and Bruce shook his head.

"Not much, no."

"Yeah, I guess all that weird fucked-up violent martial arts shit really took it out of you," Jude said, grinning. He set the timer on the sofa and reached to touch his favorite of Bruce's scars. It was just below his collarbone; the skin was stretched, faintly white. Bad defensive training early on in China. He'd told Jude it was from a bar fight in Copenhagen.

"It's mostly 'cause I was seventeen in '92." He winced at the haughty pretentiousness in his own voice. But it was easier, he supposed, than telling the truth, which beyond the obvious was: I was and remain royally fucked up from my parents' deaths and back then it was even worse. I never did watch kids' shows and I don't actually think I was ever that much of a kid.

Jude shrugged. "I watched it when I was seventeen," he said. "It used to come on at Dymphna's; they had VHS tapes of it and we could watch it on weekends if we behaved."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "Dymph— "

"Nuthouse in Chicago where I got locked up for a while." Jude said it so casually Bruce winced. He hadn't meant to but he couldn't help it. Even after all this time he still wasn't quite used to the scathing vitriol that would creep into Jude's voice, apropos of nothing, when he talked about various things other people would've found emotionally unpleasant. Jude's face tightened infinitesimally and he pulled his hand back from the scar. He said,

"You know I fucking hate that."

"What — "

"Pity, Wayne. Or whatever the fuck that face you just made was for. I can't fucking abide it, not even from you. So if you're gonna start that shit then you might as well just leave; like I said I don't need you for this next part and — "

"It's not pity," Bruce said hastily. When Jude threatened to kick him out Bruce always got a feeling of impending doom, as though perhaps this would be the last time they'd ever see each other. He should have wanted to work it to his advantage — just rush out, go to the station, get it over with — but he couldn't. There was still so much he could find out from Jude; so much he could draw out…

Jude narrowed his eyes. "I also fucking hate when you lie — "

"I'm not lying." Bruce took a breath. "I'm just not used to the way you talk about stuff. You're not — you don't sound like anyone else I know. That's all."

Jude glared at him. "I'm not supposed to, Wayne. I'm not like them. We just fucking talked about this — "

"I don't want you to be," Bruce said. His heart was in his throat because as he said it he heard the truth echoing in it. "I — that isn't what I need from you. That isn't what you need from me. Just — I just want to watch this show with you. I just want to sit with you and watch the show.

"Please," he added, and Jude huffed. He rolled his eyes. Bruce couldn't tell how bad an idea it would be to touch him, so he just did it; he reached up and ran his thumb over Jude's scars, over a swatch where some of the dye had gotten into his ruined skin. Jude inhaled, a little shaky, and said,

"If you start any of that shit again," and Bruce said,

"I won't, boss, I promise,"

and Jude sighed. He moved past Bruce to sit on the sofa. Bruce walked over to join him. He thought that Jude would make him sit on the floor, but maybe a minute after he turned the television onto Nickelodeon his hand crept out and found Bruce's knee. He wrapped his fingers idly around the monadnock of bone. There they found themselves still, maybe an episode and a half later, Jude still stroking his thumb over Bruce's skin, the towel on his shoulders stained green. Bruce's eyes were on the television, but his thoughts were drifting, dangerously.

The thing was Bruce hadn't been lying when he'd told Jude he didn't want him to be normal. Neither of them were conventional or typical —

Don't talk like one of them, you're not.

— and maybe that was okay. Other people had never done much good for Bruce. Other people had never stood and looked at him and seen what he was and embraced it, and drawn it out, and given it a name and a purpose. He'd never looked at it, not really, not in its entirety. And the thing was —

— the thing was that neither had Rachel.

He flinched involuntarily at the thought. Jude glanced over at him, idle movement of his head:

"You okay, Wayne?" and Bruce nodded:

"Yeah, sorry, just had a… thing, a twitch," and Jude snorted, and leaned in to kiss Bruce's temple. His mouth was warm against Bruce's hair and momentarily he closed his eyes.

Neither had Rachel. It felt blasphemous but in a residual sort of Catholic school-guilt way. After a moment he found he could stand to touch and examine the thought — like setting his fingers upon a raw open wound still shiny with fresh blood — so he did.

The thing was he'd always been angry. Even before his parents died, he'd had some kind of directionless rage constantly roiling around inside him, though of course at that age he'd been unable to name it or even really focus on it aside from it hurting. The hurt would in turn make him irritated, which might have made him lash out were he a different sort of person, but instead just made him withdraw. The only person he even understood to really exist most of the time was Rachel, and sometimes Alfred. After the alleyway it had been temporarily suspended, or buried, or something, to make way for the other, which was raw, unknowable loss. There rose up a blank wall where his control and his sanity had been. He felt like he'd just slammed up against concrete. The hole ripped into his consciousness was endless and terrifying. The wall was white and infinitely high and long and there were no footholds or handholds and he couldn't grab it and tear it down and he couldn't talk to them anymore or hear their voices or reach out and touch them. There was a chasm opening up under his feet and in front of his eyes and it was the same size and shape as the wall and it was unimaginable and it felt like he'd been thrust into it with the door locked and there was no knob on the inside and no key and no one listening as he smashed at the door at the walls of the chasm with his fists and screamed and screamed. He was blank and blind with terror. When it passed —

— when it passed the anger came rushing back. This time it had a different flavor than when he was younger and instead of being tangentially aware of it he discovered it was him. It was not able to be controlled as it would become as an adult and it was not able to be pushed down and for a while it consumed him. He could not sleep because every time he closed his eyes he saw their bodies stretched out before him in the rain-soaked alley. His father's arm flung protectively over his mother's chest as even in his last moments he'd rushed to defend her. The blood had pooled out from their bodies for hours, or so it felt, until the police arrived. Bruce had been afraid to move; he'd thought perhaps somehow they were only knocked unconscious, and if he moved they would die for real. He remembered initially thinking he was imagining it because this was the sort of thing that happened to other people, or people in storybooks, and therefore he didn't try to save them. He was watching them bleed out and he didn't bother trying because it wasn't real. For months after when he remembered it that blank wall would rise up and shock him, because he'd slam into it headfirst without warning. So he couldn't sleep and so he started taking pills.

At first he thought he needed Alfred to get them. Then he discovered if he forged Alfred's signature he could get pretty much anything he wanted on account of who he was and what had happened to him. He tried Silenor for a while until it started causing the nightmares. Then for a long stretch of time — all of junior high, and the first half of freshman year — he tried Ambien. Eventually he began waking with severe headaches from grinding his teeth so hard in his sleep — this deep, impenetrable sleep brought on by the drug and by the depression — and quit taking Ambien, too. So he stopped sleeping altogether by the time he was fifteen. This affected his waking life rather less than he'd thought it would. At any rate nothing was improved or made worse — he was still angry, and it was still making his decisions for him, walking him from class to class, through his father's factories and in and out of business meetings he wasn't really interested in and up and down the stairs at the manor, mumbling half-hearted lies to Alfred about how he was feeling. It curled his hands into fists and broke Danny Artman's nose in seventh grade, busted Nathan St. Cloud's upper lip in ninth. He got into fights because there wasn't anything else to do. He couldn't sleep and he couldn't focus unless he was so angry he was seething with it; he couldn't get rid of those images of his parents unless he was drawing blood and so he did. It wasn't until he graduated and left the country — and even then it would be another six years of aimless wandering around Europe — that he learned how to push back, and wrestle the thing into something manageable. Something that no longer bore his face or his name, something he could shove under a mask and a cape and tell himself it was for justice and for order and for his parents, for whom he'd done nothing —

— learning to live with the hole, whether created by anger or by depression, until it had been so long he didn't know and didn't want to know what it would look like filled in —

— and Rachel hadn't understood. She'd made a valiant effort at trying, and at the time — in all honesty, up until her death, up until this moment of sitting here on the sofa with the fucking Joker — he'd thought the two were one in the same: that attempting to understand was the same as true understanding, as tolerance, as acceptance. But it wasn't. Rachel had tolerated his anger when they were children, to a degree, because of that exact fact: they were children. Rachel wasn't angry, and Bruce was sometimes jealous that in the evenings she had a mom and dad to go home to, and that she didn't see everything as some massive pre-constructed attempt at catching him off guard and tricking him. He couldn't explain it to her in a way that she understood and it frustrated him because she was Rachel, she was supposed to Get It, and Bruce wasn't supposed to struggle with anything regarding their friendship. As he got older it got a little easier to bear; when he went overseas he felt a marginal sense of relief, because maybe while he was in Europe, or Asia, or wherever he ended up Rachel would come to realize what Bruce had been trying to tell her for years. But of course she didn't, because Bruce hadn't been telling her the right message, which was simply that he was fucking desperate for attention. For acceptance. He would take even the slightest hint of affection — albeit only from the "right people" — and run it into the fucking ground. He became adept at ruining relationships through sheer intensity. But Rachel never left, even after Bruce had been gone fourteen years, and when he came back and she said she wanted to see him he assumed —

But neither of them had really seen what they were up against. Not the way Bruce did now, anyway. There was a whole part of him that Rachel wasn't interested in nurturing, and because she wasn't interested he couldn't be either; he groomed it wrong, he gave it the wrong name and the wrong purpose and he trained it incorrectly, he'd done it all wrong for eight of the fourteen years he spent overseas, and Rachel still wasn't satisfied, she still demanded more from him, more difference, more things he couldn't give her, stability, normalcy, things he wanted desperately to want because they would've been for her and with her, and they would've made her look at him with something other than judgment —

He remembered the first conversation he and Jude had had back in September. What if there's nothing to fix? And maybe there wasn't. He knew enough of Jude's life now to piece together at least a little bit of an answer, and he thought maybe Jude wasn't fucked up in the way he presented to the rest of the world. He'd been institutionalized, okay, but he'd also grown up normally in Chicago, he'd gone to good schools, he'd had good parents. He'd lived a life similar enough to Bruce's that Bruce was sure they were both broken in the same way, which was to say not in a way anyone else would ever be able to see. The world wanted trauma and tragedy to look a certain way and yeah, Thomas and Martha's deaths had been horrific, but the world expected something of Bruce which it would never reconcile with the dark, tender creature which had come to life inside him at GCN. And similarly, strangely, the world would never see that Batman — the entity, the separate self — could have shared a past with Bruce Wayne, the executive.

Maybe there wasn't anything to fix. For either of them.

Maybe no one else would ever understand that.

Maybe it was time Bruce stopped trying to look for understanding in places it would never come from.

The timer went off and Jude's hand flexed on Bruce's thigh. He said something Bruce couldn't hear over the roar his thoughts created in his head. Bruce had to ask him to repeat himself, and Jude laughed a little bit:

"Really into the show there, huh?"

"Yeah," Bruce said, forcing himself to smile too.

"I said do you want to stay here and keep watching or come help me rinse the dye out, it's done setting."

Bruce's eyes slipped down the line of Jude's throat where more of the dye had run and bled into his skin. He sought out the vulnerable heartbeat there. His hands started shaking against his thighs.

Jude saw him. Jude saw every ugly part of him. He saw the parts Bruce had tried to keep pretty and tamed for all these years. And he accepted all of them. He didn't want to fix. He didn't want to ignore. He just —

— accepted.

"Hey." Gently, Jude nudged Bruce's ribs. "You still with us, champion?"

Bruce shook his head, hard. "Yeah, no, sorry, I — " He exhaled hard through his nose. "I'll come help you rinse the dye out." They stood; Jude switched off the television, and walked with Bruce back into the bathroom. He knelt at the edge of the tub and hung his head down beside the faucet. His back was a mess of scars and bruises; his spine stood out against his skin, and the muscles shifted. Bruce wanted to touch and so he did, spreading his palm out against Jude's lower back as he reached over to turn on the shower spray. He pulled Jude's towel off, tossed it aside. He kissed the back of Jude's neck where the skin would stay stained pale green for several weeks.

Jude's fingers clenched against the porcelain of the tub. "Wayne," he said, in a rough voice Bruce recognized, and Bruce's fingers started tingling.

"Yeah, boss."

Jude dragged his hips against the side of the tub in an obvious and deliberate motion. "Hurry up, would you?" he said.

Bruce smiled. He kissed Jude's neck again, then tugged the showerhead towards him, pressed it against Jude's scalp, and began to rinse.