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The tip had come from a snitch in Joker’s gang, a thin, nervous man with nicotine stained fingers who talked fast when Bruce tightened his grip around his collar. “The boss,” the man rasped, eyes darting toward the alley’s mouth like he could already see the Bat looming there, “he’s makin’ a move tonight. Down at the Astor. Old theater. Y’know, the one by the tracks!”
The Astor. Bruce remembered. A ruin of brick and plaster, a hollowed out husk of Gotham’s gilded age. It had once hosted traveling opera companies and orchestras, red carpets and fur coats, now it was a half condemned cavern patched together with plywood and graffiti, lights burned out on the marquee, pigeons nesting in the rafters.
He had no reason to doubt the snitch. Joker liked theatrics, Joker liked stages, Joker liked places that were once beautiful and now grotesque, echoes of grandeur twisted into something rotten. It fit. But the more Bruce followed the trail, across rooftops, then down fire escapes, into the garbage strewn streets where the Astor crouched the more something itched at the back of his skull.
The theater’s entrance was guarded by no henchmen, no goons loitering with cigarettes and pistols, no getaway van waiting at the curb. Instead, Bruce found himself standing in the shadow of the Astor’s double doors, where peeling posters advertised a revue: THE HOUSE OF WILD NIGHTS, EVERY SATURDAY. A neon arrow, buzzing and half dead, pointed toward the lobby.
For a moment, he thought the snitch had lied. A distraction, a setup, or maybe Joker’s idea of a joke: send Batman crashing through some struggling old bar, get him out of the way for the night.
But if it was a lie, Bruce had to know.
He slipped inside.
The air hit him first: thick with cigarette smoke and the sweet, cloying syrup of cheap liquor. Music thumped through the floorboards, bass vibrating up his boots, laughter spilling in unruly waves. The Astor’s grandeur was long gone. Ceiling plaster had fallen in chunks, patched with tarps, chandeliers hung crooked, glass missing from half the fixtures, velvet curtains were faded to dull brown, their edges frayed, chairs had been scavenged from other places, mismatched rows packed tight.
But the place was alive.
Gotham’s forgotten filled the seats: construction workers with callused hands, waitresses still in their aprons, drag queens not on stage yet but already dressed, lips shimmering under the dim lights. They hollered, clapped, drank from plastic cups, their joy ricocheting off the walls. A crowd stitched together out of people Bruce rarely saw up close, not in this way. The working poor, the ones just getting by, the ones who didn’t wear silk tuxedos or diamond bracelets.
Somewhere in the haze, someone shouted: “Nice costume, buddy! Looks real fancy!”
The laughter that followed was good natured, not cruel. Heads turned, and more voices chimed in. “Who’s the Bat, huh? That's your kink?”
Bruce froze at the edge of the crowd.
They didn’t care nor believe. To them, he wasn’t the Batman, avenger of Gotham’s underworld, he was just another man in a mask, another drunk who came to the Astor to disappear into the smoke. A cosplayer, they thought.
He had been stared at before, of course, on rooftops, in alleyways, in the eyes of criminals who saw him as a demon. But this was different. These people didn’t fear him, they didn’t even respect him. They folded him into their night like he was nothing special.
And for a sliver of a second, he let himself watch.
A drag queen strutted onto stage, sequins exploding under the spotlight. The crowd erupted, shouting her name. She lip synced to a pop anthem, every gesture exaggerated, every wink and kick electric. The energy in the room lifted, buoyant and infectious.
Bruce had attended galas where chandeliers gleamed like constellations, where champagne cost more than rent, where laughter was brittle and false. The guests at those parties smiled with lips, not with eyes, they talked of mergers and reputations, always circling power, always hiding knives in their words.
This was not that.
These people didn’t have wealth, or safety, or the promise of tomorrow. Their clothes were thrifted, their makeup smudged, their laughter raw. And yet they were brighter than anything he’d seen in the Wayne ballroom. Struggling, surviving and still managing to dance. A knot formed in his throat. He thought of his parents, of opera boxes and pearls, of a little boy taught that Gotham was made of two halves: the powerful and the powerless, the haves and the have nots. But here was another Gotham entirely, a Gotham that lived in defiance of the void, where joy was rebellion.
Bruce moved through the crowd, shoulders brushing against strangers who didn’t flinch from him, didn’t cower. Someone shoved a drink into his hand. “Lighten up, Batty boy. You look like you lost your wallet!” The cup sloshed cheap beer onto his glove. He set it down without drinking, ignoring the grin he got in return.
Onstage, the show rolled on. Performers came and went, each more dazzling than the last. A big queen in a feather boa did a bawdy comedy routine. A wiry performer in a gold jumpsuit, he twirled so fast the spotlight couldn’t keep up.
Bruce scanned the stage, the wings, the rafters. Still no Joker.
But the Astor wasn’t safe. Not really. Even if Joker wasn’t here, it could be a front, a money laundering joint, a cover. He needed to know why the snitch had sent him.
And yet… the longer he lingered, the harder it was to reconcile the scene before him with his mission. These weren’t criminals, these weren’t victims either. They were people clawing joy from Gotham’s ruins. If Joker had no part in this, storming through like a shadow of vengeance would only destroy something fragile and precious. He hated the thought, and still, the gnawing question burned: what if Joker was here, somewhere in the smoke, waiting to turn this joy into cruelty?
The next performer was announced. The lights dimmed, the crowd hushed. A ripple of anticipation passed through the seats.
Something in the air shifted.
The stage lights dimmed until the Astor was nothing but shadows and smoke. Cigarettes glowed in the crowd like tiny embers, drinks sloshed in plastic cups, whispers traveled row to row. Anticipation was alive in the room, thick enough to taste. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. He had learned to read tension, in alleyways before a mugging, in boardrooms before a hostile takeover. This was different, but the energy was the same: a crowd ready to be swept away.
The music began, low and sultry, a cabaret number with slow brass and a heartbeat rhythm. The spotlight snapped on, center stage.
And there he was.
The Joker.
Not the Joker Bruce had chased across rooftops, not the clown prince spattered in blood and gasoline. This Joker was radiant, a spectacle draped in satin and sequins. He wore a floor length gown, alizarin crimson, that shimmered with every movement. His pale face was powdered smooth, lips painted a bruised red, lashes curled and heavy. A glossy green wig, curled at the ends, framed his face like a starlet stepping out of an old film reel.
He was beautiful.
The word landed in Bruce’s mind like a blow.
The Joker had always been grotesque, a performance of horror, a smear of chaos across Gotham’s skin. But now, in drag, he wasn’t hiding behind brutality, he was transforming it. Every angle of his face sharpened into allure, every gesture held a grace Bruce didn’t think possible. Joker had always been theatrical, but this was something else. This was art, weaponized.
The crowd erupted. Cheers, whistles, laughter, but warm, not mocking. They clapped in rhythm, called his name, and stamped their boots.
Bruce’s pulse quickened. He tried to summon his hate, the steady flame that burned whenever Joker’s face entered his mind: alleyways slick with blood, hostages with wide eyes, the endless trail of bodies. But the fire faltered, then all he could see was the shimmer of sequins under light, the curve of Joker’s painted smile. Bruce forced himself to scan the room, to think tactically. Was this the joke? Lure the poor, the desperate, the queer into one place and slaughter them in some grand finale? It would fit Joker’s cruelty. Yet the faces around him didn’t show fear. No one flinched. They didn't even try to run.
They knew him. They knew what he was, and still they clapped, screamed, and adored.
A woman near Bruce leaned to her partner and muttered, “Say what you want about him, but at least he doesn’t kill us ‘cause of who we are. We die like anyone else, drunk, loud, ourselves. Not hiding.”
The partner nodded, raising her drink. “Better that than some suits who hates you for breathing!”
Bruce caught the words like shards in his chest.
So that was it. They didn’t trust Joker, not really, they didn’t excuse him. But they had made a bargain with themselves: if death came anyway, better it be absurd, laughing, a punchline, not because of what they could never change. Better to live wild, live visible, than be erased quietly by Gotham’s everyday cruelties.
It twisted Bruce’s gut. These people were written off by the city he tried to protect, forced to make peace with the idea that a killer clown might be less dangerous to them than a banker, a landlord or a cop.
And yet they celebrated. They danced, they screamed. They lived.
He had never seen it so clearly, and never felt so far away from them. He was only a billionaire wrapped in kevlar. They were the ones who kept Gotham alive, night after night, with nothing but grit and glitter.
Roll up all my ones, take my chances
Hit another blunt, watch the embers burn away
Onstage, Joker prowled.
Bruce didn’t know this song. He had never heard this song before.
Pour a double cup, I'm dirty dancin'
What am I runnin' from when I run so
Far away, away, away, away
Far away, away, away, away
The song’s tempo quickened, and with it, Joker’s performance. He strutted, hips swaying, gown slitting just enough to reveal a flash of leg. He tilted his head, winked, blew kisses that sent the crowd howling.
Bruce couldn’t look away.
I been shadowboxin' your nightmares left and right
Showin' up to the battlefield, no one to fight
Keep believin' the smoke will clear and the bombs will subside
He tried. Tried to fix his gaze on the exits, the shadows in the wings, the rafters where explosives could be hidden. But every time, his eyes betrayed him, snapping back to the stage. To the way Joker’s hands fluttered like butterflies one moment, then snapped into claws the next. To the way his painted mouth curved into a smile too wide, too knowing. To the way light clung to him, as if the universe itself wanted to watch.
The Dark Knight had faced The Clown a hundred times, fought him, bled because of him. But this was different. This wasn’t Joker laughing in his face while hostages screamed. This wasn’t Joker trying to break him with cruelty.
This was Joker showing something new.
Not just funny, not just cruel. A beauty so sharp it cut, a femininity played with like fire.
Bruce’s throat tightened.
As I lay down my pride in the things I confide in
For all these years, holdin' back my tears
And then Joker’s eyes found him.
The spotlight seemed to narrow, though Bruce knew it was impossible. Joker’s gaze swept the room, lingered, then snapped back. Their eyes locked. Joker’s smile widened, slow and deliberate. Bruce froze.
The crowd didn’t notice, they thought it was just part of the act. Joker always made eye contact, teased, singled someone out for a joke, but Bruce felt it like a noose tightening. He was seen. Not just seen, chosen. Joker sang the next lines directly to him, each syllable dripping with mockery and something more. He leaned forward, red lips catching the light, and mouthed the lyrics.
Lord knows that I'm tryin', I know our love has been dyin'
I still need you here, I still need you here while I
Suddenly, in the middle of the number, Joker let out a chuckle that rippled through the theater like a thrown stone across water. He held the microphone away from his painted mouth and wagged a sequined finger toward the wings, where smoke curled lazily into the rafters. “Bobby B, my old friend!” Joker crowed, drawing out the vowels until the crowd turned their heads. His jeweled hand stretched toward the shadows, singling out a mountain of a man, dark skin gleaming under the stage lights, tattoos crawling up his arms like secret maps, a thick gold chain resting across his chest. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, the ember flaring bright as he exhaled.
The crowd cheered at the name alone. Joker grinned, eyes flashing. “You know I can’t rap to save my life, sugar. Come up here and swallow the next verse for me, won’t you?” Bobby B didn’t answer at first. He just looked at Joker with a flat, unimpressed gaze, the kind that could silence an ordinary man. But Joker wasn’t ordinary. He blew Bobby a kiss, batting his lashes.
“Come on, Bobby,” Joker teased, voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr. “Don’t make me beg. You know how I hate groveling.”
The crowd roared with laughter, chanted Bobby’s name.
With a long sigh, Bobby stubbed his cigarette out on the heel of his boot. Then he stood, slow and deliberate, the tattoos on his shoulders catching the light. He grabbed a second mic from the stand he’d already set by the stage, like this wasn’t the first time he’d been called up. Without ceremony, he strode onto the boards, towering over Joker in his sequins and wig.
“Fine,” Bobby rumbled, his deep voice vibrating through the floor. He lifted the mic. The DJ, already in the game, dropped a beat.
And Bobby began to rap.
I love shrooms, I might get that tattooed
Might just keep it cooldependin' on my mood
The sun is risin' dependin' on my moon
Tell them boys back it up 'cause I'm finna act a fool
It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t meant to be. But it was raw, alive, rolling out in a cadence that matched the heartbeat of the room. His words tumbled sharp and fast, part story, part brag, part lament. The crowd screamed his name, hands in the air, stamping the floor in time. Joker clapped like a delighted child, twirling around him, echoing his words in playful falsetto.
The Dark Knight, from his corner in the shadows, felt something twist in his chest.
It was strange. Admiring wasn’t something he ever expected to feel here, toward anything tied to Joker. But there it was. There was a beauty in the way Joker ceded the spotlight so easily, inviting another voice to step forward. There was power in the way Bobby’s voice cut through the theater, a man who had nothing but his body, his chain, his smoke, and still commanded the room like royalty. These people had nothing, lived on the edges, scraping for survival, and yet here, under crumbling plaster and broken lights, they were kings and queens of their own making.
Yabba dabba doo, I'm with Jaybird in my coupe
With my fellas, butter-soft leathers, bumpin' Fela Kuti
Off that gin and juice, after, after that, I left the roof
After that, we hit the after-hours spot 'til the afternoon
Joker laughed, spinning, sequins flaring. Bobby rapped on, grinning now, the crowd lifting him higher with every shout.
Every now and then, Bruce noticed the clown’s eyes flicking back toward him. Just a glance, quick as the sweep of a spotlight, but unmistakable. They weren’t the blank, cruel eyes he’d seen over the years in alleys and blood streaked warehouses. Those eyes had watched cities burn and men beg for their lives with nothing but hunger in them. Now, they gleamed with something else. But that thing didn’t erase the evil, it only layered itself on top, like a mask painted over a weapon. Bruce could see both at once, the mirth bubbling as Joker clapped along with Bobby’s verse, twirling his dress, and the unholy sharpness underneath, the glint of a predator’s patience.
It rattled him more than the killings. Because this wasn’t madness. Tonight, Joker had chosen to smile, to let someone else shine, to laugh with the crowd instead of at them. And yet, Bruce knew with every taut fiber of his body that the man beneath the sequins was the same one who’d shoved him off rooftops, who’d tried to choke Gotham with poison gas, who’d burned and cut and laughed through every crime scene.
The duality unsettled him.
I love shrooms
Verses where hands-on, I can't come now, I got my hands full
Why wait around on the answer? I just air it out like my hamper
Wax like the candle, back in the days in the bando
I can't fuck with that ho 'cause she canceled
With no tampon, walked with a man without holdin' her hand
Period.
Joker spun, Bobby’s words pounding like thunder, and when the Clown landed facing the crowd again, his gaze locked Bruce’s. Those eyes, acid green lit with stage fire, pierced across the distance like a blade. For one suspended instant, it felt as though the whole theater vanished: the crowd, the music, the haze of cigarette smoke. There were only the two of them, and Joker’s grin curling sharp at the edges.
Every movement Joker made now was for him. He caressed the microphone like it was a lover, eyes never leaving his Bat. He dragged gloved fingers down his throat, across his chest, over his hip, as if mapping a body only Bruce was meant to imagine.
Bruce’s mind screamed to resist, to remember blood on concrete, to remember Jason, Gordon, Barbara, countless others. But his body betrayed him. He felt the heat crawling up his neck, the tightening in his chest, the way his breath caught as Joker licked his painted lips and winked. Bruce’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. He told himself it was vigilance, or resistance. But the pulse hammering in his throat betrayed him. Because deep down, he recognized the rhythm. This was the same dance they’d always done, only now, the stage was brighter, the music sweeter, the audience roaring approval instead of fear.
If I focus, I can transform into a lotus
Pull up with Rolls Royces, two sisters like two twin Holsters ghosted.
As Bobby finished his last line, Joker swept forward, arms raised, his voice curling back into the final chorus like he’d been born to it.
The number ended in a flurry of confetti and a dramatic dip. The crowd leapt to its feet, applause thunderous. Joker rose slowly, bowing with exaggerated grace, eyes never leaving Bruce’s. And then he blew him a kiss. The room erupted with laughter again, playful and cruel. To them, it was hilarious, the “cosplayer” in the corner, called out by the star of the show. They elbowed each other, pointing, hooting. Bruce stood stiff as stone, unable to react, every instinct warring inside him.
Joker straightened, lips still curved in that devastating smile. And Bruce knew, this wasn’t a joke for the crowd. This was a private game, staged in public. Joker had found a new way to haunt him, on purpose or not.
The applause from Joker’s number still rattled the rafters, laughter and whistles blending into one dizzying roar. The spotlight dimmed, but not all the way, enough to keep the stage washed in a golden haze. The band and DJ shifted seamlessly into something slower, warmer, a song Bruce half remembered from his parents’ records. A love song from decades ago, its melody wistful but enduring, meant for couples clinging to each other on a dance floor.
Joker, still glowing with sweat and tinsel, raised the microphone again. His voice dripped honey. “Ah, but what’s a love song,” he purred, “without a little dancing?”
The crowd whistled approval, Tables scraped as people stood, hands clasping hands, couples and friends flooded the floor between stage and seats. They spun clumsily, joyfully, stepping on each other’s boots, laughing too hard to care. The Astor was alive with motion, bodies pressed close in shared rhythm. Bobby B happily left the stage when in the distance, a skinny drag queen waved at him.
Bruce felt it at the edges of himself: the tug of something he had no claim on. He didn’t belong here, not in this joy, not in this community stitched together. He stood apart, a shadow in armor, built for war, not dancing.
But Joker wasn’t done.
From the stage, he scanned the crowd, one hand on his hip, the other holding the microphone delicately. “Now, now,” he cooed, “a girl can’t be left to dance alone, can she? I need a partner.” He let the word curl on his tongue, suggestive, taunting.
Several hands shot up. Shouts rose: “Me! Pick me!”
Joker laughed, a sound like champagne fizzing over glass. “Oh, you’re all far too kind. But-” His painted eyes narrowed, hunting. And then they found Bruce again.
Bruce felt it like a blade sliding between his ribs.
“Oh ho,” Joker sang, dragging the syllables, “what have we here? My very own Bat in the belfry! Look at you!” He pointed into the crowd, and heads turned as if on cue. Eyes landed on Bruce. “Come on up here, darling.”
The crowd erupted in cheers. “The Bat! The Bat!” Voices rose, laughter spilling like firecrackers. Hands shoved at his shoulders, playful but insistent, someone clapped him on the back, another tugged his arm. “Go on, cosplayer! Show her what you’ve got!”
The stage steps creaked under his boots. The Clown waited center stage, gown glittering, eyes alight with triumph. He held out a hand, mock gracious, tilting his head like a bride awaiting her groom.
“Oh, shy?” Joker teased, his voice carrying through the microphone. “Don’t be. We’ve danced before, haven’t we? Rooftops, alleys, warehouses… so many places. Why not a stage?”
The crowd loved it, the chant rose again: “Dance! Dance! Dance!”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. He hated him. He hated the way Joker twisted everything, turned blood and pain into entertainment. He hated that Joker could drag him here, into this spectacle, and make him play along.
He could have resisted. He could have shoved them aside, vanished into the shadows, clung to the walls like a gargoyle. That would have been the sensible thing. But they were looking at him with joy, not fear. For once, he wasn’t the shadow at the edge of their lives, the legend whispered about in alleys. He was part of their night. Part of their joke. And if he stormed out now, he’d shatter it, so he let them push him forward.
The first notes of the old love song curled through the Astor like smoke, soft and aching. Bruce had braced himself for violence, for a gunshot or a scream, but this was worse. The crowd clapped along, laughing, pulling him forward until the lights swallowed him whole.
And then Joker’s hand was in his.
Not a punch, not a blade, a hand, delicate in its glove, tugging him into the rhythm. Bruce could have ripped away but he didn’t. The gown shimmered as Joker stepped close, pressing their bodies together in a parody of intimacy. “Relax, darling,” he purred into the microphone, though the words were meant for Bruce alone. “Pretend I’m not me.”
But he couldn’t.
The hand on his shoulder guided him like an anchor. The weight of Joker’s palm against his back was too familiar, too much like the force of a shove in a fight. His boots moved because they always moved when Joker moved. Step, step, pivot. The same reflexes that had saved his life on rooftops now dragged him through a waltz. They had fought each other to the edge of death more times than Bruce could count. Every scar on his body carried Joker’s shadow. And yet this… this felt more dangerous than any rooftop. The music, the laughter, the way his body responded despite his will...this dance could drag him deeper than fists ever had. Straight into hell.
Joker’s face was unbearable up close. Bruce had memorized it a hundred ways: splattered with blood, twisted with manic laughter, smeared with grime and gunpowder. The face of Gotham’s plague, a grotesque mask of cruelty.
But now-
Now the same bones were softened by powder, sharpened by contour, illuminated by sequins, his lips, usually cracked and snarling, gleamed like bruised roses, the lashes, thick with mascara, brushed his skin when he blinked. And his eyes, God, his eyes…
Bruce had always thought of them as venom green, hard and sharp. But under the stage lights, they seemed to shift, flecked with gold, catching red from the curtains, blue from the spotlight. Every time their gazes locked, Bruce felt the floor tilt beneath him. Joker’s eyes didn’t just meet his, they moved through him, stripping armor, sliding under bone, curling around the heart he swore was stone.
He had seen Joker’s eyes wild with murder, cold with calculation, empty as winter. He had never seen them like this. Lidded, playful, lit from inside by something Bruce refused to name.
It was impossible to go from the crime’s ruthless prince, the underground’s tyrant, to this radiant, dangerous creature, and yet Joker made it look effortless. He had always been a shapeshifter, a master of masks. But this wasn’t a mask. This was transformation, alchemy.
And Bruce, against his will, was impressed again.
They moved together in time. Joker’s hips swayed, his gown whispering against Bruce’s legs with every step. Bruce tried to stiffen, to anchor himself in control, but Joker flowed around him like water. It was a fight, disguised as dance. A rhythm of thrust and counter, push and pull. Joker dipped, and Bruce’s body caught him without thought, the same reflex that had caught him from falling off rooftops, from plunging into the river, from slipping through his grip in alleys. Joker spun, and Bruce’s arm followed, the way it always did when Joker twisted from a chokehold or ducked a punch.
Every movement echoed the countless times they had nearly killed each other. And yet, under the music, the violence melted into something else, their combat had always been intimate in its own way, two bodies bound by obsession. But now that same intimacy was stripped of blood, clothed in rhythm.
And it was unbearable.
The crowd followed them at every twirl, every sharp snap into stillness. Joker leaned in, lips so close Bruce felt the heat of his breath. “We’re good, aren’t we?” he whispered. “Better than Fred and Ginger. You and me. Always.”
Bruce’s teeth clenched. “This isn’t real.”
“Oh, darling, it’s the realest thing we’ve ever done.”
His voice slid into Bruce’s neck like silk pulled over a blade. Bruce forced himself to look away, at the curtains, the wings, the crowd. But his gaze kept snapping back, helpless, to Joker’s face. The arch of a painted brow. the shimmer of sweat at his hairline, the impossible curve of his smile.
He thought of bloodied alleys, of laughter over corpses, of every vow he’d made. He thought of all the times Joker had dragged him into hell. And yet the truth pressed against him as surely as Joker’s hand on his back: this felt no different. This was the same drag downward, only wrapped in satin. He was teetering at the edge of something he could not allow himself to want.
Joker’s eyes looked at Bruce again. For a heartbeat too long, Bruce let himself fall into them.
The music slowed, nearing its final verse. Joker slid against him, chest to chest, until there was no space left. His lashes lowered, his painted lips parted. Bruce’s pulse hammered. The heat of Joker’s body seeped through armor and cloth, the weight of his hand was fire on Bruce’s spine. It was the same as always: hate and obsession locked together. But now, the edges blurred until Bruce couldn’t tell which was which.
The song ended with a long, aching note. Joker dipped low, gown fanning out, and Bruce caught him, of course he caught him. Bruce straightened, his hand felt scorched where they had touched, his chest heaved, his hatred was intact, but frayed, blurred, trembling at the edges.
And Joker’s eyes, glittering with triumph, told him he’d felt it too.
The music didn’t stop when their dance ended. Joker, still pressed against Bruce’s arm, soaked in the attention like champagne. He bowed low, dress spilling around him, one hand dramatically clutching Bruce’s shoulder as though they had just performed a flawless duet. When his Bat’s chest heaved. Every spin, every clasp of their hands, every brush of fabric over his armored thigh had set his nerves burning in ways he could not reconcile with the man in his grasp. Bruce wanted to shake it off, he wanted to drag Joker backstage, break this spell with cold steel cuffs, restore their world to its order.
But Joker’s grip tightened on his arm.
“My, my, my,” Joker purred into the microphone, lips curling around every syllable. “Our little guy has rhythm. Don’t you think, darlings?”
Some people broke their dance to look at them and laughed. Beer sloshed, someone threw a feather boa onto the stage, another a wilted flower. Bruce stayed still, jaw clenched, a sentinel in the chaos. He should have left the moment the song ended. He should have torn himself from the stage and vanished into shadow but his boots stayed planted and his arm still carried the weight of Joker’s gloved hands.
Joker turned to him slowly, eyes glittering under the painted lashes, green irises turned molten gold in the light. The Clown looked at him like a performer realizing his act had landed too deep. Then he bent, dipped Bruce like a ballroom partner, and held him there. He felt his cape brushed the boards, Joker’s face hovered inches from his own.
And Joker whispered, soft as a knife sliding between ribs:
“Tell me, Bats… how should we end this?”
The words clawed at him, he wanted to tear it away. But his body betrayed him, his hand gripped Joker’s waist too hard, his breath shuddered against the painted cheek so close to his own. He forced his jaw shut, turned his head aside, refusal was the only weapon left to him. But Joker only laughed, a low laugh of intimacy.
“Oh, darling,” Joker said, brushing a lock of synthetic hair from his face with mock delicacy. “I can feel your pulse. No one cares who you are here so try being honest with me for once...”
Bruce shoved him upright, breaking the dip. The crowd giggled, thinking it part of the act. The Clown staggered back with exaggerated flair, one hand to his chest, lips parted in scandalized delight. And then he stepped close again. So close Bruce could see where the lipstick bled outside the line, where sweat smudged rouge on his cheekbones. The flaws didn’t ruin the illusion. they deepened it, this was no porcelain mask. This was raw, alive.
“You hate me,” Joker breathed. “You’ve told yourself that a thousand times, haven’t you? Hate me enough to break every bone in my body. Hate me enough to lock me in cages. Hate me enough to dream about me when you try not to. I hate you like that too. And yet...” He tilted his head, lashes low, gaze melted. “Here we are.”
The crowd watched in rhythm, urging them closer, mistaking every tremor of tension for part of the show.
Bruce’s heart hammered. He should end this. He should vanish into the rafters, into the shadows, into anywhere but here. He should not feel this heat tightening inside his chest when Joker leaned in.
Bruce turned his head again, teeth gritted. The crowd booed in playful jeers. Joker giggled into the microphone, a silken ripple that dripped down Bruce’s spine.
“Oh, look at him blush!” Joker announced, throwing his arm wide to the crowd. “So shy, our little knight! Shall I make him swoon, my lovelies?”
People screamed yes.
Bruce growled, “Enough.”
Joker ignored him. Joker always ignored him.
He pressed closer, until their noses brushed, until Bruce could taste the sweetness of stage paint in the air between them. “I’ll stop,” Joker whispered, so low the crowd couldn’t hear, “if you tell me you don’t want this.”
Bruce’s throat locked. Because he could lie. He could say the words. He had lied a thousand times to keep Gotham safe, to protect the mask, to preserve the order of his mission. But something inside him, a knot wound so tight for so many years, refused to untangle into that lie now.
He said nothing. And Joker kissed him.
It was not soft, not gentle. Joker’s mouth was heat with paint and teeth. The crowd shrieked, exploding into applause, into drunken roars, into whistles that shook the boards. To them it was a show, another outrageous act. To Bruce, it was something else entirely. He stiffened, hands locked at Joker’s waist. He could still break away, end it, and preserve the order of their world. But then Joker’s fingers slid behind his cowl, cradling the back of his skull, holding him there with surprising tenderness.
And Bruce gave in.
His mouth parted and the kiss deepened.
For a heartbeat, just one heartbeat, the world narrowed to paint, sweat, and the wild impossible taste of his greatest enemy pressed against him. The music swelled. The lights blazed. The crowd stamped, started dancing again.
And Bruce kissed him back. Not fully nor forever. Not the surrender Joker wanted. But enough. Enough to admit there was something more in the chasm between them than hate.
When Joker finally pulled back, both of them breathing hard, his lipstick smeared across Bruce’s mouth, he didn’t laugh. He just looked, really looked. For once, Joker’s eyes weren’t wild. They were steady, almost human.
He lifted the microphone, voice husky, and whispered into the crowd: “Curtain call.”
And in the chaos, while Bruce’s pulse still staggered from the kiss, Joker slipped from his arms, spun into the wings, and was gone.
By the time Bruce tore through the curtains, there was nothing but sequins scattered on the floor, a faint trace of perfume, and laughter echoing somewhere deeper in the dark.
The crowd carried on dancing, drinking, and living. People thought tonight was just another show, another night of survival. But Bruce knew it was a war he had lost in ways he couldn’t name.
The theater didn’t quiet when Joker vanished. If anything, the noise swelled, as though the kiss had been nothing more than another trick, another performance designed to thrill. The crowd is drunk on their own delight. Some staggered toward the bar, some spun back into dances that spilled across the cracked floorboards.
The night was still young, but it was already over in Batman's head.
He stood in the middle of the stage, the cape hanging heavy from his shoulders, his chest rising and falling as though he’d fought ten men. A cheer rippled when someone shouted, “Encore, Batman! Encore!” Others laughed, elbowing each other. But no one saw his hands. How tightly they curled into fists, how he wanted to break the boards beneath his boots, tear down the curtains, hunt Joker into the dark until his lungs burned.
Instead, he left.
The bodies around him pressed too close, the air choked with sweat, perfume, beer, and the faint, metallic tang of stage paint. He slipped through them, shadow weaving between shadow, until the cold night air hit his face like a reprimand.
Outside, Gotham was quiet. Snow had started to fall again, thin and sharp, coating the empty sidewalks. The city lights looked distant, sterile compared to the riot of sound he’d just left. He walked into the night, the cape dragging across slush and grit, and felt the smear of lipstick still clinging under his cowl. He didn’t wipe it away.
Not yet.
The Batcave was silent.
Bruce removed the cowl slowly, fingers trembling more than he cared to admit. He set it on the worktable and caught sight of himself in the glass reflection of a monitor. His mouth was still marked, faint, smudged, but unmistakable. He scrubbed at it with the back of his hand. The red blurred, streaking across his skin, refusing to vanish. He washed it with water. The sting of soap followed. Still, when he looked again, he saw it. Not on his lips anymore, on his memory, etched there with the permanence of every scar.
“Long night?”
Alfred’s voice was gentle, careful as he descended the stairs, carrying a tray with tea. His eyes swept Bruce’s face the way they always did, noting every detail a battlefield left behind. He didn’t comment on the rawness in Bruce’s expression, the faint pink at the corners of his mouth, he only set the tray down, the clink of porcelain echoing in the cavern.
“Some battles leave more visible scars than others, Master Wayne,” Alfred said softly. “Others are harder to see.”
Bruce didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He lowered his head, bracing his hands against the edge of the table until his knuckles blanched. His heart was steady now, but in a way that frightened him more than the earlier pounding, it was steady because something had been acknowledged. Because the line he swore would never blur had blurred anyway.
The cave swallowed him in silence. The bats above rustled, restless. And still, he tasted paint and heat and something that was in the air.
Elsewhere, the theater was empty.
Backstage, in a dressing room too small to hold both the glittering costume and the silence, Joker sat before a cracked mirror. The wig was off. His green hair, damp with sweat, curled around his ears. Smudged paint streaked down his cheeks where sweat and tears of laughter had carved their paths.
He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, staring at his own reflection. For once, no audience. No gang. No clapping crowd demanding an encore. Just him, the smell of stale powder and sequins, and the echo of what had just happened. His painted fingers slowly touched his lips.
And the Clown laughed.
Not the cackle that tore through alleys, not the shriek that rattled bones, not the manic peel that meant blood would follow. This laugh was quieter. A tremor of amusement he tried to swallow and couldn’t.
Because for once, the joke hadn’t only been on the Batsy. It had landed on him, too.
The thought made him laugh harder, until his shoulders shook, the cracked mirror blurred with tears. But still it was quiet, almost ironic. He pressed his forehead to the glass, whispering to no one, “Oh, Batsy… what a punchline.”
And the brutal laugh that followed was the kind that didn’t end with violence. It ended in silence.
For once, Joker sat alone with a joke that didn’t destroy, but lingered.
And it lingered in him.