TDK Fic- Intervals- Accident
Title: Intervals- Accident
Summary: Chapter nine- There's nothing like a near death experience to force you to realise exactly what it is you feel for someone.
Pairing/characters: Bruce/Joker
Rating: Overall NC-17, this chapter: pg
Warnings For Series: Graphic sex, swearing, violence, slash, procrastination
Word count: 3431
Disclaimer: Not mine.
They had been fighting, the same old usual Armageddon inducing rage and boiling adrenaline whisking in a tumultuous avalanche, enabling the warring vessels to once again blanket themselves in cool denial and welcoming ignorance. It was uneasily close to the point where this was customary- the necessary battles and wounds used as shields to block out unforgiving realities, such is the comfort of the devil you know. To slice and bite and roar and cackle was to deform and disguise impulses to touch and hold, the quick, fluttering urges the man shrouded in dusk spat at and the freer of the two clawed at with enraged need. If they couldn't fall into the sharp caress of equivocating tongues, if they couldn't hide from this disfigured violent truth, then perhaps they could at least justify the cold flames with enough rusted, ferruginous liquid shed from bruised bodies and exposed maw.
So they had forced themselves into a carbon clash of pugnacious, sparring limbs, breathing raggedly, inhuman brutality spiking their blood flow as the heat of struggle consumed them, scratched at their weary resistance, pulling them an inch closer to the cavern they tight roped across.
Attacks hailed down with a mechanical unpredictability, the unholy bonding of the passions of hatred and tepid unwillingness biting in the breeze as the soulless night hissed commands of duty and fulfilment. The two were nothing if not slaves to destiny and it just so happened that theirs was to seek out the marrow of the other and wear it as a champion would a tiger hide all the while clutching onto silent, snaking dreams of merely holding a writhing heart. And born out of these snowball desires were the after moments. The reasons, if they actually allowed freedom of thought, that willed them to maintain their roles with such feverish devotion. Wet flesh moulding in butterfly seconds, slippery muscles feeling so deliciously fated for the one place they had absolutely no right to ever exist in. Occasional cupping of twitching jaws, the dangerous brushing of deft fingers on a glowing, disgustingly beautiful face, the hummingbird quiver of a heartbeat felt through thick armour, telling them the other had survived their encounter to find their core pumping for a whole separate reason. And the fates would allow the ravenous predictions of coveted moments as long as they served to sustain the everlasting conflict between the assumed titles of good and evil.
Their contrasting eyes shone with a united gleam, holding the combination to the daring hopes of the other, blazing green calling out to the crystalline cobalt, sucking the distance out of the air between them, inviting the other to loose himself in the heated collision of their bodies as they struck each other, forgetting themselves as inner monologues took over, neither their heads nor hearts in battle. Bodies shut down and instead moved in a timeless autopiloted routine as craving thoughts waited with potent impatience for what comes next. And as they allowed the razor talons to perforate and drag them away, neither noticed the luring danger as they inadvertently danced backwards towards the starving edge of a wallowing building. Knowledge of the tears in Batman's cape seeped from their pounding brains as the hero and villain pounced on each other in eager, halfway acted venom. The Joker rolled them over and shining blades aimed with a stunted accuracy as he avoided vital areas of the man beneath him before strong arms propelled him backwards in an almighty rush of strength, causing the clown to trip and stumble as the vigilante righted himself, persistently unaware of how close he was to the fall as every last one of his senses zoned in on the cackling genius picking himself off a grimy rooftop.
Crackling vibrancy tangled its way through the buzzing nervous system of the moss haired one as his mouth fell open in slack jawed glee, every ounce of his being adoring each passing second of contact with his partner. The instant his balance was reinstated, he propelled himself in a silk-strong glare of bruised cloth toward the heaving chest of the jaded knight, catching the hyperbolically tall man at an odd angle. The caped creature wobbled in an uncertain latitude and it was then their eyes ignited in paralysing dismay as the odious flaw was realised and frantic gloves swiped out a pulse too late, tragic fingers merely brushing where they needed to go, a loved and loathed body sinking foot after foot towards the esoterica of the onerous asphalt. The whip of time cracked through air particles, slicing the fabric of linearity as the lionised cloak withered under pressure and failed the Batman as he helplessly folded and crumpled to the base of the building, a perilous distance away from the frenetic thudding of the madman's heart. And the champion could only stare in fierce horror as the force of his being lay mangled in a wreck of twisted limbs and gashing head sores far below him. The great Batman, the Dark Knight. His all. Beaten and unconscious before the maniac entitled the Joker, precious breath undetectable even as the frenzied clown rushed his way down the building to the cowled one's side. And for once, it was all an accident.
* * *
Surges of hyperactivity spasmed around Joker's insides as he paced with agitation up and down a drab apartment he'd forced his way into a few hours prior. The place was nothing special; grime coated démodé wallpaper slathered in gaudy styles, mismatched furniture yearning to be cleaned, typically creaky floorboards coated by a ragged coral mat in the middle. It was nauseatingly normal. The only notable features were the forms of a knifed young woman and a deceased physician as well as the foreboding image of an injured Batman laying bandaged on a bed he had no claim to. Having been conquered by an emotion that tasted queerly like abject fear upon almost killing off his playmate and spurred on by short blasts of energy, Joker had lugged the vigilante into the nearest ground floor apartment, disposing of its paling occupier as soon as he crossed the threshold. There had been no time to waste on appearances and showmanship- a knowledgeable knife slammed into an unsuspecting temple did the job as he struggled with the unconscious hero now held in the grips of serious peril. As soon as Joker had Bruce securely placed on the greasy bedcovers, he began viciously ripping apart the living quarters as the madman searched with utter peeling discomfort for some kind of first aid kit, hissing curses and commands to the fates with every passing second. By the time he located a small red box in the kitchen draw, his heart was firmly locked into his gullet. The idea that Batman might die at his hand in a lifeless flat was entirely inconceivable. The criminal swallowed thick agony, wincing at the alien taste. He would not let that happen.
That had been eight hours ago, the night long having melted under the glare of the sun, the Batman's heart still beating dully thanks to the doctor Joker had his henchmen bring to him. Dr Phillips had treated the damaged Bat through damp eyes, his hands shaking with heated terror as the electric eyes of the madman flared at him, the promise of certain death should he fail written all over them. But he had persisted with determined precision in his duty, his oath playing like a mantra in his mind. But after long minutes he realised there was no way to finish what he could do with his limited supplies without removing the cowl. His cracked voice trembled as he relayed the information to the anxious maniac, nerves alight at the appearance of very human fear on the monster's face. But to his absolute surprise, the man nodded his consent and with skilled hands, bypassed the shock system on the helmet and cautiously peeled back the mask. The older man tried not to gasp and stare at the young playboy's unconscious face but natural shock and curiosity cradled him as the gossiping mites in his brain began nattering away. A violent raspy voice sliced through his stupor with a bark to get on with it, so the good doctor pushed his feelings aside and proceeded to mend the wounds on the broken Bat's body.
The minutes were long and choking on nervousness as the physician examined his unwanted patient. The armour had taken most of the fall even without the aid of the cape, but the billionaire was still in need of a painful amount of stitches, plenty of rest and a boatload of drugs. Upon finishing his task, he turned to the clown and, still quivering under the roar of his green orbs, told him he could do no more for the Batman. The Joker would just have to wait and see. It was then that he was struck by the incongruous query of 'why does he even care?' and before his imbecilic tongue could be stopped, his eyes grew dangerously wide as he heard himself asking the madman the very same question. All he saw before the world perished into crude blackness was the disgusted snarl of the clown and the end in the form of a gleaming knife.
* * *
Bruce slit open his stinging eyes, the dull light of the daytime hidden behind drawn blinds but still extracting a hissed whine from the brunet as the brightness egged on his thundering headache. Once he could will his eyes to blink away the crusted sleep and open them fully, his eyebrows furrowed as he surveyed the room he was lay in, not recognising his surroundings at all. He racked his brain for memory of what had happened, left with only fleeting flashes of yet another battle on yet another roof top. Bruce pushed on his forearms, trying to sit up but harrowing pains pressed against his attempts, jolting and pounding inside his limbs, ripping his newborn quest to get up away from him.
Sighing, he dropped back down on the bed, noticing how heavy he felt. He was still in his armour. His heartbeat stopped for a moment as he realised cool, dusty air was brushing at his cheeks and forehead. Slowly, he brought a gloved hand up to touch where his cowl should've been, ignoring the blinding agony he was in, and when it came into contact with flesh not kevlar, he scrunched up his eyes in a combination of horror and defeat.
“It's okay. Nobody knows” a nasal, well acquainted voice murmured. He turned his head a little too fast for his condition, blood rushing in front of his eyes before parting, allowing him to peer at the form of the madman, leaning habitually against the door frame, the picture of languidness. But his face exposed immense stress, the bags under his eyes more noticeable even with all the black makeup, the forest orbs absent of their normal, maddeningly astute edge. Even his face looked more pale than Bruce was used to. It was...unnatural.
Bruce fought the urge to give into the role he was accustomed to and to snarl and rage at the maniac. He blinked, feeling exceptionally groggy and disorientated, his vision clinging onto the image of the clown so as to stabilise itself, evoking some semblance of balance as his body fought against his maladies. There was an inkling in his veins that Joker had saved him somehow. The specks of stinging knowledge that the maniac had done something, and if he hadn't Bruce wasn't sure if he would be here in this noname dive that he didn't even want to think about how Joker came into occupying. The madman in question began moving towards Bruce, appearing highly strung with some brand of tainted apprehension, the notion of course preposterous, but his body-language spoke volumes.
“The doc said you're gonna be feeling a little off for a few days. And you've broken a limb or five. But I guess that's what you get for jumping off rooftops. So no flapping around for a while, 'kay?” Ah, that's what happened. Bruce's memory returned ten fold; the scuffling with Joker, loosing his balance, the look of strained fear on that painted face as he made a grab for his hand. And then, nothing.
“The doc?” Bruce whispered, shaking off the remnants of what had happened. The purple clad man cleared his throat and pointed towards the slain remains of Doctor Phillips, a substantial supply of bodily fluids haloing the body. The playboy felt the icy nails of neat rage rake at the barriers something inside him had constructed, but whispers inside his skull sang to him that this was no shock. Still, he felt bubbling anger inside him, wishing he could get up and beat the viscera out of the murderer, but as it stood, he settled for sending him the most severe of glares his concussion would allow.
“Oh, don't look at me like that” Joker whined, rolling very tired eyeballs, “He had to take your pretty little cowl off. I couldn't let him live to sing about it.” Everything knitted of justice that Bruce held inside him screeched at him that this was disgusting, sick and just wrong, but something very small chirped that, actually, Joker was right. The method of silencing was undoubtedly something he could never condone but as he looked at the bloody body that could've easily have been Mr Reese's, close to the foot of his bed, all he could think of was the insalubrious truth that of course Joker would kill to protect him. Of course he would save his life. The man was possessed with insalutary obsession, a kind he would never admit he had tasted himself.
The clown was now perched at the foot of the bed, his jade eyes charring, scorching right into Bruce's own. He looked almost angry, no hints of typical delight or amusement present in his entirety as he scowled at Bruce with such a rancidly strong expression, the vigilante had to struggle against the need to turn his head away. The painted man's hands twitched as though he wanted to touch, to grab, his body trembling, taken over by consuming, dominating emotions he was clearly not used to confronting. Just as Bruce was considering speaking to take the edge away, the madman swiped out a hand, and before the Batman had a second to flinch at the suspected attack, he was gripping the leather coated hand, squeezing impossibly tight, his eyes still digging into Bruce's tattered soul. He leaned forward slightly, his face hovering over the injured man's.
“Never do that again” he hissed through gritted teeth, hand now practically crushing the other's in a way that was possibly very painful. But Bruce just couldn't tell. There was not one single thing about him that wasn't completely focused on Joker, swallowed by the severity of his gaze and the low command in his voice. The unspoken threats and ferocity thinly shielded the range of flaring sentiments behind his eyes and Bruce found himself nodding, helpless under that stare to do anything but agree with him. And he knew. Understood everything the green haired man was trying to inject into his body. In those moments he allowed his resolve to fade, his principles dying on the spot. Because this man had saved his life. Because he was here. Because in his pulsating core he knew very well he'd have done the same thing in little more than a flash. And he could play dumb and stick his fingers in his ears accompanied by a chorus of lalalala and tell himself it would be because it's the right thing to do. But it was an unsavoury flavour. The lies slithering into expiration for the time being and just for a few seconds he could acknowledge that, yes, a bond between was very much in existence. The surges of electricity flowing in his arms at the madman's touch were too potent not to notice. He swallowed. And squeezed back.
They stayed like that for several minutes, uncaring about the ridiculous image they created, the see-sawing emotions aligning themselves for precious few minutes, allowing them to remain is a tight limbo. Soon, the last of the shivers erupting in the criminal abated, his muscles taking on the calm, soothed exterior they generally held, drawing comfort in the motions of Bruce's fingers as they remained wrapped around his hand. The vigilante's eyes started to gradually droop despite his efforts to remain awake, not completely trusting the clown not to do anything. Saving his life was one thing, it was inevitable, but that in no way meant he wasn't going to do anything to him while he slept. Joker's brows knitted together at the sight. Bruce needed full medical attention to clarify he wasn't about to become enveloped in the clutches of death, and that wasn't something he could provide for his darling Bat right now. Letting go of Bruce's palm, he rouse from his place on the creaky bed and picked up a cellphone from the floor where he'd thrown it after speaking with one of his agitatingly inadequate goons. He watched the vigilante with careful eyes as he reluctantly handed the device to him, not wanting to leave his presence just yet.
“Call your butler. We're in 34b Pine Street, Robbinsville.” he muttered as Bruce took the phone. Bruce slightly inclined his head forward and began to dial with throbbing fingers, hoping Alfred's voice would unleash him from his stupor. Joker leant forward, pressing bitten lips against Bruce's hair, shivering upon finally coming into contact with something that wasn't designed to prevent contact. Bruce went rigid, fingers halting as they dialled and his breath hitching at the firmly uncharacteristic action. But somehow he didn't think that the innocent kiss was so out of place in this situation, but then, this situation was out of place with the rest of the natural order of things, so it was probably expected.
“No cops” Joker whispered against his chocolate locks, before gracefully pivoting away and striding towards the exit, stepping over the empty corpse on his way. As the door clicked shut, Bruce lay bewildered, clutching the phone to his chest, his thoughts stuck between chafing understanding and vigorous confusion. As he finished pressing the sequence of numbers, his mind swarmed with the desire to unravel the enigma of the brief moment he had just shared with the maniac. He went with the sensations of the minute smile tugging at his lips as he listened to the lulling rings of the phone and decided that, actually, being free from the cutting restraints of denial felt good. Even for this short passage of time, he felt free.