Log in

04 January 2009 @ 11:49 pm
fic for kowaiyoukai  
Title: The Season To Be
Characters/Pairing: Batman/Joker, Alfred.
Summary: The Joker just wants to spend Christmas with Batman.
Rating: R for language.
Word count: 1,545 words.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. (Duh.)
Notes: Written for the twelve_knights fic exchange.
Prompt: I'd like angsty fic that's Christmas themed. I guess set at Christmas time would make the most sense here. Psychological themes are love, and any combination of S&M sexual tension, Bruce Wayne being Batman's mask, and the Joker being abused as a kid would ROCK.
I don't know how much justice I've done this prompt, but I do hope you like it!

The Season to Be

There, the final perfect touch, the blood-red cherry on the cake: he pulls the tasselled hat on, runs a paint-stained finger circling his reflection in the grimy mirror. He mimes a grotesque pout. The light in this dive is dim, but he can see enough in the mirror to make him chuckle.

Oh, oh, Gotham is going to adore what he's going to give it as a Christmas present. Chaos! pure and shining as the snow that still settles in the city like a shroud. Little itchings and inchings of chaos, like flurries of snowflakes from the mucus-grey sky. He's already gotten to play with the Bat a tiny little bit since escaping from Arkham (oh, like you thought he wouldn't escape! Come on!), but there should be more – and he's going to make sure that the caped crusader hears of him this holiday season. He wants to make this special.

* * *

It's Christmas Day, the day after Bruce Wayne's Christmas Extravaganza. Bruce has slept late, exhausted after playing the social butterfly; he gladly accepts Alfred's offers of good food and coffee. They don't need anything fancy for Christmas dinner. Bruce never has.

He knows he should just take an evening off, spend a peaceful Christmas in the penthouse. But as if by instinct, he listens in on the Gotham police radio – just to keep ahead of things, as he tells Alfred.

"Tonight, Master Bruce?" Alfred asks, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Surely Batman can have a bit of a bloody Christmas break?"

Bruce frowns. "The Joker," he says softly. "He's out there, and I'm pretty sure he's not one for holiday breaks." He remembers meeting the Joker in a fire-lit alley – remembers what happened. Guilt still burns inside him at the thought.

What he hears, eavesdropping on the police radio, makes him abandon all thought of a peaceful Christmas at the penthouse. There's a man dressed as Santa roving the town, stabbing and singing. Bruce has no doubt at all about who it is; so he does the only thing he knows how to do. Despite Alfred's protests, he sets off to transform into his darker self. He sets off to become Batman and see what the hell the Joker wants this time.

* * *

It transpires that the Joker's idea of a Christmas treat is to goad Batman into following a trail of corpses, candy and confetti, all liberally strewn along certain side streets in a less savoury part of town (all right, so there are only two corpses, but it's certainly enough to get the point across).

Bruce strides along the snowy street following the gruesome trail. Vaguely noting that one of the street lamps is broken, apparently from a gunshot, he feels the familiar anger simmering inside. Once more, the Joker is continuing to terrorise Gotham, his Gotham; and he lets him. Sure, Batman kicks and punches the clown into the Asylum time after time; but the Joker always finds a way out in the end, and Bruce knows he will.

He can't bring an end to it, though – it seems that neither of them can, or wants to. And this time there's a whole new spin to it: this time, the Joker's escaped to spend his demented version of Christmas with the Batman, and the fact that he's killed at least two people to pave the way is nothing compared to the fact that the last time that Bruce met him, some madness made him kiss the Joker back.

Bruce can do nothing but hurry along the confetti trail. It leads him to an ordinary-looking building, up a staircase distinguished only by the mess left by the Joker. He comes to a halt at apartment number 25. There are red lipstick stains all over the door, spelling out an unmistakeable and ridiculous message: Merry Christmas, Batman. Miss me?

The anger's at a boiling point again, just as it should be. Bruce gets the door open with one furious kick, and storms into the apartment. It's obvious that the Joker has hijacked it from some unsuspecting citizen; Bruce fervently hopes that said citizen has had the fortune to be out of town when the Joker came to call. The lights are out, and the room Bruce steps into seems to be lit only by a few candles, and a select few Christmas lights. There's a Christmas tree in the corner, twinkling and laden with ornaments, and the rest of the apartment seems to be all decorated for the season too: Bruce can glimpse holly, baubles and bells in the dim light.

"Joker," he growls, low and menacing, "where are you?"

From the direction of what Bruce presumes is the bedroom comes a stifled giggle, followed by the most sepulchral imitation of Santa Claus Bruce has ever heard.

"Ho. Ho. Ho. Ahaha, hee, ho ha!"

Fearing the worst, silent and furious, Bruce rushes into the other room – yes, a bedroom – and blinks at the sight that greets him there.

The bedroom is not quite as sparingly lit as the other room: there are a few candles burning, but the plain bedside lamp has also been lit. The Joker is reclining on the double bed, dressed in unfamiliar-looking red. He's wrapped a red Santa coat around himself, on top of his ubiquitous purple and green; and on his head is a ridiculous-looking Santa hat, all sparkles and white fluff, complete with long tassel and a jingling bell. His painted face shines whiter than ever amid all the red, and Bruce notices – what a fucking stupid detail to observe! – that the Joker has carefully matched the colour of his lipstick to that of his seasonal outfit.

The Joker would look like a complete fool if Bruce wasn't so intimately acquainted with the danger and madness behind the façade.

"Hello there, Batsy," the Joker greets him, shifting on the bed, appearing entirely at ease. "I'm charmed to see you here so soon! I wasn't expecting you to arrive till uh, till later. So, bats don't do Christmas, that it –?"

"What do you want this time?" Bruce snarls, cutting short the goddamn sweet talk.

"Huh," says the Joker, sliding a hand casually into his pocket. "I thought it would be obvious by now, Batman, but clearly you're as blind as they say flying rats are. Hmm. Well, what I want, what I want is quite simple." His voice deepens. "I want you." He draws his inevitable switchblade from his pocket with a gentle snick, and licks his lips.

Bruce growls, an inarticulate sound of disgust (although something hot and mad is curling up inside him). He approaches the bed. "What I want," he says, "is for you to get the hell out of my city."

The Joker laughs, high-and-low. The bell on his hat jingles. "Come now, Bats," he says, fluttering – fucking fluttering his eyelashes! – "you don't really mean that, now do you. Where would you get your kicks from if it wasn't for me? Hmm?" He waggles his eyebrows. "I know that dear old Scarecrow isn't quite enough for your tastes –"

Bruce pummels the Joker for that, each blow sending jolts of cruel pleasure to his senses. He knows the Joker must be enjoying every punch, the sick masochistic fuck, but physical force is the only weapon that Bruce is sure he'll be able to muster.

"Oh," gasps the Joker lewdly, "ooh, Batman, more!" He leers as Bruce punches him in the face again, but won't stop talking. "This is a good old Christmas tra-tradition, you know," he babbles, gasping and writhing, but not hitting back, as Bruce continues to beat sense into him. "I, I got this memory, you know – when I was a kid – hey, my old man used to – Batsy, you tease! – and he got a bit excited one Christmas Day, and guess what he did?"

Bruce finally lunges down to wrestle the flailing Joker into submission. "Gave you those scars, no doubt," he mutters; he's sick to death of the Joker's never-ending and convoluted stories.

"You're spoiling my story," says the Joker, bringing his knife close to Bruce's masked cheek with a serpentine move of his hand. He sounds like an irritated child again. "But the long and short of it is, yes. He did. At least I think he did..."

Bruce yearns to stop the Joker's chitter-chatter; then he remembers one way he's used to accomplish that end in the past. A moment of disgust, hesitation, and he's diving in, forcing his lips onto the Joker's like there's nothing else he can do. The clown lets out a muffled yelp of – could it be? – surprise. The scars feel repulsive, such strange pitted skin; but then the Joker's tongue is in his mouth, and God, it shouldn't feel this good.

Bruce can feel himself growing hard, and as he reaches out a gloved hand, he knows that the Joker is too. The Joker has to be sedated in order to get him in handcuffs, ready for Arkham again – so, Bruce continues with his kiss. Cursing himself, vowing this is all for the good of Gotham, he brings the Joker to the brink of gurgling, gasping pleasure, and over it to completion.
ereshkigal2 on January 5th, 2009 05:39 am (UTC)
I love the idea of Batman fucking him into submission. And at the end the Joker would look like he'd been hit by a disturbingly erotic truck. (Bit of Zap Brannigan for you there.)
squishy is the new shiny!: [tdk] interrogation tableteithiwr on January 7th, 2009 10:30 am (UTC)
He would, wouldn't he? :D Thank you for reading!