Disclaimer: Batman © DC comics

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The Heart

Part 06 —

love and a blowjob

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But it is important:

Batman and Bruce Wayne are not two separate entities or split personalities. They are two halves of the same coin. It is normal for humans, in our production orientated society, that every member plays a vital role—and in most cases, several. Parent / child / co-worker / friend. Sometimes we mix it up. Sometimes one covers for the other. Sometimes we forget. Batman's role is a protector. He lives in silence, not a contemplative or a pregnant silence, but dead one. Like he'd never existed at all.

Until…

A little later.

The atmosphere in the filthy excuse for a kitchen and living room is positive. It is 07:00, and the first light not blocked by pollution creep lazily into the window. Jack is making eggs. He uses a technique that leaves a thin egg white cover over the yolk, fascinating Bruce. Jack, fresh out of the shower, is wearing an equally fascinating towel bouquet on his head, refusing to say where he'd learnt it. Bruce makes them coffee and complains about Jack's sweet tooth ("But six sugar cubes are my thing! No, it does not ruin the coffee!") and begrudgingly pours himself some without milk or sugar. They're relaxed, not the least bit awkward, cracking jokes and otherwise enjoying themselves. Old friends. Lovers.

It will not last.

"I'd like to take you somewhere nice," Bruce says, feeling drunk. "Somewhere private. Not like that restaurant we were at. Somewhere more us."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Is this to make up for fucking me after the first date?"

Bruce looks horrified.

Jack smirks, "Re—laaax, Bruce. I'm kidding. I wouldn't say no to another date. Don't apologize, you made your lil' disappearance up to me last night." Jack winks. He seems to remember something, orbs moving upwards, uneasiness dawning on his face. It's infective, and soon Bruce wears a matching expression. "I need to ask you something," Jack says, finally.

"What is it?"

"It's..." A pause. "It can wait."

Jack eats his toast. Then, changing the subject, he says, "Thinking of dying my hair. Blonde's a bit…" He grimaces. "Gonna change it to brown. Or black. More mature."

"You saying I'm more mature?"

Jack deadpans. They laugh until Bruce gets a message from Alfred alerting him about a business meeting. His Lamborghini has been parked outside. Jack follows him to the door. "I'm… I'm glad you came back for me, y'know," Jack says shyly.

Bruce smiles. He awkwardly leans into Jack and gives him a kiss on the forehead. "Me too."

Halfway down the hall (Jack insisting on following gentleman style), the manager of the flower boutique comes their way. He stops up, regards them, then leers. "Mr. Wayne. How's the girlfriend?"

The urge to tell him to piss off rises, but Bruce only gives a tight smile. Jack looks uncomfortable. Bruce says, "If you'd be so kind, please move. You're blocking the way."

"Oops, my bad. Just go through the boutique. I closed it for, eh, maintenance faults." He goes away cackling.

"Got a bad feeling about this, Bruce. My boss' only source of entertainment is the misery of others."

"Don't worry," Bruce says, and opens the door to reveal a scene that proves Jack's bad feeling correct.

("Mr. Wayne!" FLASH "Mr. Wayne!" FLASH "Mr. Wayne!" )

Paparazzi. Someone must've alerted them. Squealing pigs. Howling wolves. Their eyes drink in Jack like they want to strap him to a table and dissect him. DARLING BUDS' door is wide open, and they're streaming in, a mess of writhing bodies and flashing cameras. A bald, wormy looking man even has the balls to grab after Jack. "You gay?" he yells, putting the question everybody's asking in two simple words.

Bruce describes his situation with one: "Shit."

He grabs Jack's arm. Like hell he's going to leave Jack here with a media circus full of starved animals slash journalists. He's learnt that much. Putting on the pissed playboy act, he shoves his way through the boutique, shattering pots and uprooting plants in the process. He shouts curses, fake and dramatic. Thank god the Lamborghini's parked near the shop. Bruce makes sure Jack is inside first, before jogging to the driver's seat and skidding away from the "peaceful" little street.

Cars continue to follow them, but they're safe now, and Bruce is a good driver. He keeps his eyes on the road. They're both silent. The rain is pelting.

Finally the realization eats its way through his careful defences:

He's slept with the Joker.

Because truly, when they fucked and Jack's head was between his legs, did he not imagine another in the dim bedroom light? Spray paint face and lipstick grin, widening. I am guilty, Batman growls. That you are, answers Bruce. Both of us—the whole of me—is guilty of being enamoured with this man, whoever he is, whoever he was, whoever he will be.

Bruce's hands tighten at the wheel. The car is cold and Bruce is turning up the heating.

"Has this always been your life?" Jack asks, quiet. It takes Bruce a moment to understand that he's not referring to having conversations with yourself, but the paparazzi.

"Yes."

"They like to paint a certain picture of you." Jack is a quiet speaker, but once he gets going he won't stop. "I don't read the magazines, but I've seen the covers. Seen your face, and the headlines about you. But I don't know... I feel like I know you differently... hard to explain, sorry. I feel we have a connection although we haven't known each other for that long. I feel like I've know you all my life, as if you've been there, always, since before the beginning."

"I have to keep up the façade."

"...Do you have any real interest in the life you're living?"

"No." 'Not in this life, anyway.' The girls, the ginger ale, the parties... Bruce gets no enjoyment of it. "It's complicated. But I guess I like spending time with you. I don't do that often. Like spending time with people, I mean." He chews on the inside of his cheek, and admits, "I don't trust people easily."

"I can't explain why, but I trust you," Jack says. "With my life, my soul, with the whole of me. We both have pasts so I'm not gonna dig, don't worry. But... Tolerate my jealousy." He's talking about Alana, probably. "Recognize the need to..." His lips thin, expression closing off. He curls a strand of hair between his fingers.

Bruce's hands are white on the steering wheel. He wants to reach out and touch Jack, kind Jack, my Jack. But he doesn't. "I'm not sure this can continue."

Jack says nothing.

But he falls forward a bit, almost shrugging at the sadness of life. His eyes are tightly shut.

"You saw how they tore at you. I don't want that to happen to anyone I... care for."

Jack looks at him, sharply, but remains silent.

"It's not like I don't trust you to take care of yourself, but please, I don't want—"

"What I want," Jack interrupts, hard as ice, "is to suck your cock again."

"Jack this isn't... Jack!"

"Watch the road, Brucie."

Before he can react, Jack has leant over, working on his zipper. Bruce can see Jack's muscles working through his thin white shirt, but his eyes are forced back to the road, a blur of stone façades and city lights fractured by rivers of water. Batman twists inside him, shrieking, J—

Then Jack takes his cock into his mouth and starts slobbering all over it. It's repulsive and hot. His tongue moves like someone who's done this before yet experiments, riding up different parts, favouring the head and underside. "Mmm," he hums, licking his lips. "Aaah."

First when Bruce's arousal starts reacting, painfully fast, Jack sucks so hard his cheeks hollows. He's still using that tongue of his to all it's worth—and it's worth plenty. "Oh fuck!" Bruce yells, out of breath. This is a sickness, a disease of some sort. With his cock in his mouth, the Joker grins up at him through Jack's eyes.

God please don't let him be the Joker. Let the Joker be dead and rotten. Bruce refuses to acknowledge that Batman disagrees. I hope this is Him so I can catch him again and again and again and again

He comes, biting his lip till it bleeds. White. Death, for a moment. His mind becomes empty.

Jack swallows, but wipes the discarded remains on his shirt sleeve. He licks his lips. Holy hell, he probably likes the taste. "You don't want to leave me," he says, hard. "You like me too much."

"I like you," Bruce says, dazed, trying to keep his eyes on the road. Jack's right. Isn't he allowed a little happiness? A little order? A little Jack?

"Slow down," Jack says, nudging his head towards the road. "Lemme kiss you."

He does, hot and sloppy. Bruce tastes his own cum and grimaces. Jack laughs, breathless. They part and the spit stretches out in a little line before it breaks at the middle with a small pop.

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The body must be in balance.

This is particularly important when it comes to hormones. You get too little dopamine, you get Parkinson's, and too much, schizophrenia. Too little serotonin and you get depressive symptoms. The point here is this: Bruce wonders what the fuck they pumped Jack full off to make him so irresistible. It's cliché. Dumb. Like an idiot in love, but Bruce can't help it, because Jack insists on walking close when they walk up to the Wayne mansion and Bruce feels intense warmth inside his chest.

Alfred is not as warm.

"Master Wayne," he greets, ever so blasé. "You missed your meeting."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize to me," Alfred says. "Apologize to Lucius." He's suspicious—but Jack wouldn't know.

He just feels like a bum boyfriend disapproved by strict, rich parents. A failed courtship to add to the list of his failures. Jack's pride isn't swelling, exactly, Bruce knows. "This is Jack," Bruce says firmly. "I'm dating him, currently."

Alfred's expression betrays nothing to Jack, but his eyes tell Bruce everything.

If this is part of some plan of yours I do not think it will succeed.

I do not approve of this.

And lastly: I still hope you know that you're doing (and that this will not break you further).

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The media gobbled up his little boutique act. It plays 24/7 most channels—although they've just recovered three dead bodies in an abandoned house in Gotham with no clues—and the scene in which Bruce turns towards the camera shouting "Fuck you!" is the most popular. More articles appear online. Debates arise. LGBT and pious people are dragged in.

Jack sleeps in Bruce's bed.

Need to hunt crime, Batman demands. Soon, Bruce promises. I am hunting it as we speak.

He hunts information out of Jack, but most times, finds himself ignoring opportunities with excuses like "Jack told me not to dig". They build upon attraction that was already there. Sex hasn't changed anything, but it has sped things up—and they do have a lot of sex.

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They've hung out for about 15 hours, midnight nearing, when Jack drops an atom bomb.

"You know," Jack says, "I'm glad I listened to that man."

"What man?"

"The one in the park. Wait..." The atom bomb detonates, countdown going 10, 9, 8... "Shit shit shit shit I wasn't supposed to tell you, it was so strange and he said you'd be upset—"

"What. Man."

Jack gulps. "He was wearing a strange clown costume," he says finally, and Bruce's world tears in half.