ONESHOT: CURTAIN CALL
TITLE CURTAIN CALL
AUTHOR:filthe
PAIRING: Joker/Bruce, Jack Napier/Bruce Wayne
RATING: PG15
WARNINGS: Vaguely written sex, choking, I haven't written in a billion years
SUMMARY: Kink meme prompt The first time Bruce Wayne encounters the freshly rehabilitated Joker, he breaks his nose. He also sits him down, hands him a handkerchief, sets his broken nose with two quarters from Jack's wallet and buys him a drink with money from his own. Jack has been pronounced sane after receiving radical treatment at Arkham. He's essentially the one who killed Bruce Wayne's childhood friend, but, somehow, he ends up in the billionaire's bed. Tell me how he got there
NOTES: I haven't written in ages, but there was this prompt on the old Dark Knight kink meme that I really loved and I ended up writing this for it. :D linked on AO3 up in the title if you'd prefer that
JOKERS NEW FACE had been in the papers for a while now. It was no shocker that following his capture, he had more or less been relegated to the title of Arkham's new favourite guinea pig. What Gothamite would protest? Nobody cared that the city's most notorious criminal mastermind was locked away in a cell, getting his brain prodded and picked apart. And it was clear that they must have really done a number on him, because not three years had passed before there was a triumphant article in the Gotham Times. A game-changer in the world of mental health, they had called it. There was a five-page spread praising the team of doctors that had orchestrated this miracle, and another page still detailing the hope this represented for their city full of lunatic scumbags.
The Joker was cured. The man beneath the monster was freed, and things were going to be okay.
The accompanying mugshot of him would've been downright hilarious if it wasn't so sad. Here was Mr. Success Story, who had landed on the front page of the Gotham Times for the first time in years, and he couldn't even bring himself to crack a smile. Even with the scars he looked downright miserable. His new, human face was gaunt and tired, framed by a mess of dark, straggled hair with his mouth set in a stern line.
Bruce had studied that photo for ages. He had had stared into The Joker's dark, haunted eyes until he had memorized their shape and every nuance, shocked that the greasepaint hadn't, in fact, corrupted him enough to stain his face permanently. Here was a man like any other, declared sane by a piece of paper, given an anonymous new name and set back off into the world with a pat on the back as if everything he had done up until now had just been a brief lapse in judgement.
But on the day that Bruce had actually encountered the new Joker in person, he didn't even need to see his face or his eyes to know exactly who it was. It was in the vulture-like set of his shoulders, his terrible posture being the one remaining piece of him that they hadn't managed to scrub out. His tall, hunched form stood at the edge of the road, and he looked out at the traffic like he either wanted to throw himself into it or like he wanted to call a cab and couldn't remember how. Joker turned his head ever so slightly, revealing the lilting curve of a grinning scar, before crossing the road and disappearing into the crowds.
Bruce stood up from his table and slipped a fifty into the waiters hand without saying a single word. He followed after Joker, stealthily shouldering through the crowds, all the while playing it cool. He tailed just close enough to keep an eye on the back of that mop of hair and just far enough not to be too obvious about it.
When Joker slipped into a quiet alley, Bruce quickly and silently broke away from the crowds and darted after him, being careful to keep his footfalls perfectly silent. Once the two of them were just far enough from the main road, Bruce came up and punched Joker so hard in the nose that the resulting crack actually echoed in through the alley.
The force of the blow knocked him flat on the ground. The groceries that Bruce hadn't noticed he was holding went skittering to the pavement, and a colourful crowd of apples and oranges and soup cans rumbled off in all directions as if to escape the conflict.
Bruce stood over him, nostrils flaring and fists poised to do it again. He clenched his fist a little tighter and he waited, waited for that hateful grin to slip across Joker's face, waited to see his shoulders shake, for the subsequent shriek of laughter or a plea to to it again.
But the man that was once the Joker didn't laugh. He didn't crack a smile. He just looked up at Bruce with a look of genuine hurt and confusion, and the sight was so goddamn wrong that Bruce almost wanted to punch him again just to get him to cut it out. And then, for just a split second, there was a flash of something in those dark eyes. Something not unlike recognition. Before Bruce could analyze it, the man dropped his head so that his eyes were obscured, and he began picking up his groceries.
Bruce watched, making no indication of helping as Joker collected everything, crawling about on his hands and knees and gathering everything with all the speed and grace of a geriatric patient. His big, bony, hand shook as he reached for a dented can that was at Bruce's feet, and then he herded a cluster of tomatoes back into a box. He caught an orange that was languidly rolling towards a dumpster, brushed off his last bruised apple and placed it back in the bage. The logo on the bag read, Gotham Food Drive, which Bruce did not fail to notice.
Then, Joker slowly and shakily got to his feet, wiped his bloodied nose, and toddled off.
In that moment, Bruce realized Arkham had been wrong. Joker had been a monster all the way through and underneath the paint there was absolutely nothing left. Bruce stared after him, his own hair in disarray, still panting from the adrenaline rush and the self control it took not to completely beat the shit out of him. The sounds of the city slipped into his conscious; the din of cars horns and traffic and people slowly becoming apparent as he came back to reality.
“Wait.” Bruce called.
Joker stopped, and turned.
Bruce trotted up to him. “Got any quarters on you?”
Joker stared at him blankly, before digging into his jacket pocket. He unfolded a beat-up old wallet, and Bruce craned his neck to see the ID, right next to a homeless shelter eligibility card.
Jack Napier. Joker's new name was Jack Napier.
“Jack” pulled out some change, handed it over, and started to walk off.
Bruce stopped him. “I didn't mug you for fifty cents. Come here. Gotta set your nose back.”
Bruce did so without much fanfare. He carefully placed two quarters on either side of Jack's freckled nose and positioned the quarters until there was a barely audible little crack. Jack reacted as a normal person should have and cringed, which was a good sign, he supposed. But it didn't change anything.
Jack reached up to touch his nose and wrinkled it a little, testing it out. “Thanks.” he mumbled. His voice was low, but still held a hint of that odd, nasal twinge to it, and Bruce couldn't figure if it was because he had just gotten his nose broken or because he had spent a good chunk of his life being a clown.
So, Bruce decided wanted to hear it again. “Look," he started. “Can I get you something?” He wasn't about to apologize to a monster, but he felt a twinge of something that was not unlike sympathy at the idea that he was now a charity case. “A coffee, or..”
Jack raised his eyebrows at the offer, as if he was completely unused to kindness. Which he probably was. It wasn't like Bruce was doing it out of kindness, at any rate. It was more to appease his own conscious; the tiny voice in his head that told him it wasn't The Joker he had just punched but some other guy who just so happened to be wearing his sorry mug.
“Sure, I guess.” Jack said, unsteadily.
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Bruce found himself standing in a line that spanned the length of the entire cafe, with his hands in his pockets and his Armani sunglasses on to avoid recognition. As he waited amongst the chatter of working class Gothamites, the smell of coffee and pastries all around him, he turned to stare out the window.
Jack lurked outside like a dog tied to a post. His dark form was hunched against the steady drizzle that had begun to fall, and he kept his eyes trained to the ground, nervously licking his lips only every so often. The signature tic was so familiar and yet so unlike who he was before that it didn't bother Bruce as much as it should've.
Initially, Bruce had been puzzled over Jack's refusal to enter the coffee shop. Then he thought it over and realized Gotham probably hadn't welcomed him back into the world with open arms. Jack had been living his new life for a few months now, after all, and he had probably learned of the public's animosity towards him firsthand, right off the bat. After all, if things had worked out, he probably would've found himself a job and Bruce probably wouldn't have found him wandering the streets carting around bags of donated goods.
When Bruce finally stepped out of the shop holding a brown bag and a drink, Jack looked up with those sad eyes of his like he was surprised he'd come back at all. He accepted the cup and food and held it against his chest like it was the first good thing that had happened to him in years. “Thanks,” he said for the second time that day, and all Bruce could do in response was stare at that scarred and haggard face of his and wonder how he had even managed this long.
“Look,” Bruce started. “It's raining. Why don't you come back to my place for a minute? Get yourself cleaned up.”
Jack looked at him warily, and then nodded.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
The sleek black Lamborghini was parked not two blocks away from where they were, looking more like a piece of modern art than a car. Bruce opened the door and stopped. "Spill any of that on the seats and you'll be paying for it," he said, before slipping in.
Jack's mouth quirked into a crinkly half-smile, but he was still careful as he followed suit.
The interior was muted all of the outside noise except for the drum of rain. The engine smoothly hummed to life and off they drove.
Bruce watched Jack, stiffly sitting there,with his broad shoulders hunched and his wild mess of dark hair dripping all over everything. Bruce was about to joke about how the folks at Arkham could've at least spared him a haircut before he decided to shut his mouth.
Through the rain-streaked windows, Gotham was little more than smears of blurry lights and shiny black roads. Jack didn't say a word. The only sound between them was the rhythmic whirr of the windshield wipers.
Bruce glanced over and wondered what he was thinking. He could see Jack's reflection in the window, his pensive eyes staring up at the towering buildings that passed by. In another life he had once ruled the place. He had once been king; he had power and control and money to burn. Now he was nothing more than a reject and a nobody, shoved into the corners of society and left to rot in plain sight.
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It was downright pissing rain and thundering by the time they reached the building. Jack surely would've been huddled and shivering in the doorway of some building, or a bus shelter by now, so really, getting punched in the face was a blessing. When Bruce stepped out of the car, Jack shuffled after him, squinting through the downpour as he followed him into the building.
Bruce strolled into the marbled lobby, nodding at the receptionist. Jack accidentally made eye-contact with her, and upon her grimace, looked down and quickly trotted after Bruce.
They went into the elevator.
Jack pressed the floor button before Bruce got a chance to. Bruce raised an eyebrow. They spent the ride up in silence.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
The penthouse was seldom-used, except for business trips and more recently, bringing home old enemies. It was also was completely empty, and that's exactly why Bruce had chosen it over driving all the way out to the Palisades. Alfred didn't need to know about this, whatever this was or ended up being. Bruce really didn't know yet.
Bruce took Jack's bags out of his hands and went to dump them on the kitchen counter. Everything felt dusty and cold and weirdly unfamiliar, it had been ages since he'd last been here.
Bruce opened the fridge and peered inside to find nothing but bottles of alcohol, none of which were intended for his use. They'd probably continue going untouched for months; he'd be more than glad to let Jack take a couple off his hands.
“Can I offer you a beer or something?” Bruce called, his voice echoing through the apartment as he rifled through the clinking bottles. “Vodka? Rum?”
Jack didn't reply to the offer.
Bruce peered around the fridge door to see Jack standing by the mantel, silhouetted against the window. Outside, a spark of lightning flickered in the grey sky.
Bruce closed the fridge door and padded over.
In his hands, Jack stared down at a framed photo of Rachel, his expression unreadable. Bruce took the photo out of his hands and placed it face down, the frame clinking against the marble surface with a sort of finality. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Bruce crossed his arms and leaned against the mantel, his voice dropping to a pitch that was ready to cut the bullshit. “You know, for a second there, I almost thought you couldn't remember.”
Jack made a scoffing noise. “Of course I remember," he said quietly.
"How much?"
"Everything. Absolutely everything."
“And still you had the nerve to accept my kindness.”
“Yeah. I did."
The tone of voice flipped a switch in Bruce. Bruce grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall.
“You don't deserve this." Bruce hissed.
"Then why are you doing it?" Jack asked, cooly. The image of a grotesque painted face peered through for just a moment, before Bruce blinked again and it was just a weary-looking young man.
Bruce yanked him by his shirt and threw him into the couch. Jack crashed onto it and barely got a second to breathe before Bruce was on him. Bruce roughly kissed him and Jack frowned.
"What are you doing--” Jack managed to say, before Bruce's mouth crashed into his again. The kiss was rough and desperate and completely wrong.
Bruce broke away. His eyes were wide and he seemed unsure for a moment. But then he continued, frantically undoing his shirt with shaking hands. He struggled with the buttons a little, fumbling around before ripping it off and tossing it to the ground.
Jack was propped up, watching him with tired eyes as he waited for what was going to come next.
“Take off your shirt.” Bruce commanded, nervously running his hands through his hair.
Jack obeyed, his movements punctuated with a sort of resignation as he pulled off his shirt and limply tossed it aside, revealing a lean and scarred torso.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
And Bruce fucks him. Not as a lover, but as the only person in Gotham who could possibly understand the plight of this wretched man, He fucked the monster who killed Rachel, who destroyed Dent and brought an entire city to it's knees. He thrust harder, rougher, and wrapped his hands around Jack's neck.
He fucked him, because it takes one to know one, and who knew a freak better than a freak? Jack wasn't aroused in the least, and Bruce had the strange feeling that he'd probably been his first and only. Their breathing was ragged and quiet; the only noise in the house besides the rain pattering against the window.
Bruce bit Jack because he hated him. He clawed him and punched him again and again because he hated him. He kissed him because he understood him, and shoved him away because he didn't want to. The ordeal was rough and bloody and painful. There was no laughter, no sick derivation of pleasure from it. It was penance, and Jack stared up at the ceiling with blank eyes like a martyr. And god, Bruce thought, looking him over, with his hands wrapped around his neck. Once upon a time he might have been downright beautiful.
"You were the only one, you know." Jack finally said as Bruce constricted his throat. Bruce squeezed harder and Jack squirmed languidly. He took in a halting breath, licking his lips. “All this time on the streets and you were the only one to show me any kindness." Even still there was that strange clownish nasal lilt to his otherwise deep voice, more pronounced than earlier.
"Why is that." Jack asked, his eyes distant, and Bruce squeezed harder, twisting a little. "You of all people." he wondered aloud. “Bruce Wayne billionaire. I can't imagine why,” he chuckled , before it petered off into a wheeze.
Bruce silently pressed all of his weight into the stranglehold as he continued thrusting.
Jack's voice was halted now and barely audible. “I wish you would just kill me, y'know. Just do what you should've done a long time ago," he whispered, his voice wavering with each thrust. "I've only been begging for it."
Thunder rumbled and the rain poured even harder outside. Bruce let go of his throat and Jack gasped, coughing violently.
"If you want to push me into getting your filthy blood on my hands then you're gonna have to try a little harder." Bruce said.
Jack chuckled wheezily. "I don’t have the energy anymore."
After Bruce came, he grabbed a fistful of Jack's hair, yanking his head so that he spoke directly into his ear. “I wouldn't give you the satisfaction.” He whispered. “You're no monster. You're nothing. And you deserve to live ignored and unwanted for the rest of your miserable life.” Bruce shoved him away and Jack just lay there, staring up blankly. He agreed completely.
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When Bruce woke up the next morning, there was no note, no trail, no anything to indicated that Jack had ever been there. He half-expected to see a Joker card, grinning up at him, and the absence of it made him feel bittersweet for reasons he couldn't even pinpoint.
Bruce stood at the window, watching the sun rise on the glittering city, awash in orange-gold light. Bruce thought about the sort of life Jack lead now. Maybe he'd stick to a life on the streets; one that meant panhandling, doing card tricks for coins on a street corner and sleeping in a box. Maybe he'd find himself eventually landing a minimum-wage job where he'd find himself working the rest of his days in the far back of a store, coming home to an empty apartment and an empty bed. Another Gotham tragedy. Another empty man.
Or maybe he'd finally had enough of Gotham. Bruce imagined him scrounging coins out of his wallet, digging through his pockets until he found a fifty dollar bill he didn't remember having. He imagined Jack leaving on the first train out, sitting in the corner with his hood up and his eyes trained forward. And he wouldn't turn around, wouldn't even think to watch as Gotham grew further away and the past grew further behind him.