All love stories have a beginning. Theirs starts one summer day at dusk.

Crane is on the rooftop of his apartment complex, smoking a joint and watching the sun sink below the horizon. The Joker is downstairs, sedated, asleep. Two days before, Batman had nearly killed the clown, beaten him within an inch of his life before unceremoniously dropping him at Crane's doorstep.

"Twenty-three stitches," Crane says aloud and whistles, remembering himself running his fingers over the sewn flesh. A warm wind blows, billowing his shirt and the smoke. Jonathan wants to wake him so they can see the sun set together but Joker always cared more for dawn, for the darkness giving way to the light.

He hears the rippling of the cape before the Bat even speaks. He doesn't ask how he found them, that would be irrelevant. It does not matter how or why he is here. The only thing that matters is what he has to say.

"Batman," Crane says, not turning to look at the vigilante standing solidly behind him. He takes another pull of the joint before flicking it over the ledge and running a hand through his hair, tone merciless. "Come to finish the job? Kill two kooks with one stone?"

The Bat does not answer. His gloved fists clench at his sides, the same anger, the same shame.

"Don't worry. J's asleep. Has to be after the hell you put him through."

Impure silence follows, for they are quiet and still, but Gotham is hungry and loud beneath them. Cars, sirens, yells, someone running, someone blaring a horn, obscenities, sighs, something slams, someone cries.

He hears the Bat approach him, the heavy steps. The sun sinks lower, a molten orange ball behind pastel clouds. There shadows are cast long against the gravel.

"I didn't mean to –"

"Batshit," Crane says coolly, cruelly, "you meant to do it, even if you don't know it. You know, somewhere deep down under all the ethics and notions of justice and morals, that you love us. You love me and you love him and you can't fucking stand it. So you think that killing us would be better than loving us. That it's noble, that the blood would not be on your hands. But guess what. It was on my hands. Joker's blood as nearly he died on my kitchen counter." His vision goes blurry with sudden tears. He stops, remembering all the fucking blood.

The Bat is at his side now, still standing, but his hand drops to the doctor's shoulders saying…saying what? What was there to say? Crane rises until they're chest to chest, breathing the same air. He smells of cannabis and cigarettes, bad coffee and sweat. Bruce knows these scents as his just as he knows the Joker smells of gasoline, money, smoke. Just as he knows when they fuck in back alleys, which man likes what being done to them, and what they enjoy doing to him.

"You don't have to love us," Crane says finally, rising and looking him in the eye, "Hell you don't even have to fuck us." He rises to his full height, gaze murderous. "But I'll slit your throat myself right now if it means that you'll never try to kill him again."

Bruce knows this is not a bluff. He also knows that this is not an outright end, rather he is being given a choice. The choice that means he can either choose to be the pillar of justice Gotham needs or the man he truly is, the mortal he is, the mortal that in this instant wants to kiss the doctor till neither of them could breathe.

"I won't," The Bat says finally, softly, near tears himself. "I didn't want to. I could never. I…I love him too much and you. I just can't believe that out of all the people in the world I've fallen in love with two…two…"

"Two criminals, terrorists, murderers…men?" Crane says, and smiles. One hand travels to the back of the vigilante's neck as he pulls them closer and whispers hotly, "The world's a bitch isn't it?"

Bruce kisses him them, long and deep, tongue and teeth. His hands cinch at the doctor's waist, the doctor bites his lips till blood is drawn. Retaliation no doubt but he deserves it.

Jonathan pushes him away roughly. He's a little high and the sun is completely gone now, but he looks at Bruce soberly, the most serious he's ever been. His hair glows amber from the streetlights and the ones on this roof.

"Bruce fucking Wayne I'm asking you this once. Are Joker and I just some back alley fucks or do you want to be with us?"

They stare at each other for what seems to be an eternity. Bruce thinks of Rachel, Alfred, his parents, and Gordon. He thinks of what they'd think if they saw him fucking or kissing or loving these men. He thinks of Jonathan, his brilliance and ruthlessness and perpetually skewed glasses. He thinks of Joker downstairs, bandaged and bruised for his own insecurity, all the dead bodies between them. All the more that'll pile up even after this affair turns something more.

He removes his cowl slowly, holds it under his arm. His hair is stuck to his head from sweat but he does not care. He wants Jonathan to know how serious he is.

"Yes," he says roughly, "I want to be with you both, forever. I love you both. I know that I won't always agree or like what you're doing. And I know that my judgement won't stop you. I can either pretend like I don't need you both or I can let it drive me insane. But I love you. I really fucking love you. Let me show you."

They wake the Joker, Bruce with his mouth on his nipples, Crane with his hands on his cock. They fuck him tenderly, like two people desperately holding on to a precious thing nearly lost. Then they fuck each other, on the floor, the stairs, in the bathroom, against the kitchen counter. It's messy and it hurts and heals and reaffirms everything.

It's dawn when they find themselves half naked on the kitchen floor, backs against the cabinets. Light floods through the half-opened blinds. Jonathan and Bruce are drinking coffee, the Joker rises and opens the window before lighting a cigarette.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, gazing at the bruises and stitches, imagining all the spilled blood. The Joker turns to him, smoke streaming from his mouth as he does so. "I didn't mean to. You know I could never."

"I know," Joker says, softly, pulls on his cigarette and says, "I could never either. That goes for you too Doc."

"I'm flattered," Crane says with an eye-roll. He rises and kisses the clown, steals the cigarette for a quick drag before handing it back with another kiss.

Bruce watches the intimacy in the exchange, the two figures outlined by fresh sunlight. They are two forces of nature, creatures of the kill in their own right, have murdered people without much thought and absolutely no remorse. But oh how tenderly they treat each other, and him in these private holy moments.

Their heads turn to him almost in tandem, looking peaceful and sleepy. Joker is wearing his T-shirt. Crane stands in only a pair of sweats.

"Join us?" Jonathan says, gesturing to the window where the two criminals stand, watching the day unfold.

Bruce does not hesitate to join them. They watch the day get made anew, not once worrying what it would bring.