Jonathan Crane had a shitty day. The Joker had gotten lipstick on one of his favorite shirts and after the third consecutive wash, it was clear the stain wasn't relenting. His lab had also suffered from a minor explosion, something overheating or cooling or mixing, he's not really sure. But he does know it destroyed materials and chemicals, expensive materials and chemicals not easily attained and now stresses over just where he would buy more products. And his lovers weren't there when he woke up, which wasn't unusual in the harlequin's case but the Bat usually stayed long enough for coffee and a kiss before breezing out the door as the infamous Bruce Wayne.
But neither of them were there, and he hadn't heard from them all day. Unusual, to say the least, he muses as he turns the key into the lock of his apartment door.
Jonathan calls for them as he lays his keys down and the few chemistry books in his hands, removing his coat but their own yells block out his voice. He groans, day already too annoying to now have to deal with his bickering boys.
"For fuck's sake," he says as he walks in the direction of the argument, "Would it kill you to —?"
He isn't prepared for the sight of them. The Batman and the Joker. They are not in costume, covered in flour, faces clean and heads cowl-less but they are the rulers of the ruined city in which they all abide, fighting a war in Jonathan's small kitchen.
Beaten and bloodied, swinging fists and swift kicks. They truly fit. Where one wavers, the other is steady, for every dip there's a peak to fill it. They are a mold. And the Bat comes down on the Clown hard with a right hook and the harlequin doubles over, gripping the counter, wheezing a phlegmy laugh before turning a body slamming his companion to the floor, knocking the wind out of them both.
The Joker is on top of him, laughing, breathing heavy. The knife winks in the light as it comes down on the Bat's throat.
Batman is still, his hands by his sides in surrender.
"Now Batman," the Joker purrs and Jonathan shivers at the deadly tone, decides that there shouldn't be anything erotic about his lovers bleeding all over his floor.
And yet.
"Yes Joker," Batman says and they can all practically hear the eye-roll.
The harlequin smiles, caresses the billionaire's face with the business end of the blade, before patting his cheek with the flat side of the knife. "That fucking cake is gonna stay in that oven for 35 minutes like the directions say and not a moment less."
"It's going to be dry," the Bat whines beneath him and the Joker shakes his head, sending a cloud of flour into the air.
"The box clearly says —"
Any debate is drowned by the doctor's laugh, for Jonathan Crane is nearly bent over, laughing long and loud at his two lovers. Because of all the things one would get into a fist fight over, of course his lovers fought over how long a cake should be kept in the oven.
And by the time he's finished laughing, his lovers have become upright and are holding boxes wrapped in festive wrapping paper and it's all so surreal that Jonathan really doesn't know what's happening anymore.
And the Joker must see this because he takes a small step forward with his box wrapped in Batman themed wrapping paper, raises his eyebrows and says, "Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday doc?"
His birthday? He hasn't celebrated his birthday in more years than he'd care to remember. And he nearly blurts out that birthdays are a waste of time, and don't actually have any real merit on how your body ages, and the psychologically effects of societal norms around age and how harmful remembering one's age can be. But he sees them, and the kitchen covered in sugar and bits of egg and flour and smells the cake burning in the oven and he can't say anything really but, "You remembered my birthday?"
"Of course we remembered," Bruce says, "we've been preparing for it all day. We tried to make pasta but…let's just say it didn't work out. But we got takeout," he points to the take-out bag on the counter, "and we made a cake."
The cake turns out to be red velvet, his favorite. And it would be dry if The Joker didn't slather enough cream cheese icing to make them all diabetic.
They sit on Jonathan's worn couch, the TV tuned to the news but on mute, eating cake, the doctor sandwiched between them. Jonathan has never felt so content, Bruce's arm around him and Joker's head resting on his shoulder.
"Aren't cha gonna open your gifts?" Joker questions drowsily, popping a take-out dumpling into his scarred mouth.
Jonathan lays down his plate full of cake crumbs and picks up the two boxes. The first is obviously from Bruce, the paper a muted silver with a simple navy blue bow. Inside is various vials, and bottles full of chemicals, and equipment he's been wanting for awhile. The second is from the clown, messily wrapped, containing several stick on bows and hand-drawn hearts. The box contains two pairs of shirts exactly like the one ruined, one in deep burgundy, the other a forest green.
He is surprised and pleased and feels such a surge of love that he is momentarily speechless.
"Doc?" Joker says, sliding easily into his lap with a searching look. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing I…" The doctor pauses, planting a small kiss to the Joker's lips and giving Bruce's arm a small squeeze. "Thank you…I haven't…just…thank you."
Bruce wraps his arms around them both, the Joker groaning as more pressure was applied to his injuries.
"Sorry I punched you in the face," Bruce says, looking very much like a guilty schoolboy.
The Joker's lips split into a smile. "Sorry I almost slit your throat," The clown replies nuzzling into Crane, "sorry we almost burned your apartment down doc."
"I don't mind," Jonathan says and is surprised at how much he means it. He is surprised that these men, these two warring entities can do just about anything they wanted with him and he'd be okay with it. He wonders if it's some form of Stockholm syndrome or perhaps simple addiction.
But then the Joker lays his head on his chest, Bruce embracing them both and he realizes that it is late and normally the two men are out by now, battling for the city's soul underneath overcast clouds and blurry bat signals but they aren't. They're staying. He's given them a reason to stay.
"Happy birthday doc."
"Happy birthday Johnny."
"Thank you," Jonathan murmurs back, deciding that whatever he is suffering from it is well worth it. He's already insane, might as well enjoy it.
…
As promised, more Jonathan! Lots of fluff lately so will probably get angsty in next chapters.
