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“Look at him go,” Joker tells the gargoyles on either side of him, trailing the graceful black figure with his eyes. “Isn’t he just magnificent?”
The gargoyles respond by grinning their marvelous open-mouthed grins, and in appreciation of his audience, so does Joker. In the distance, handsome and heart-throbby as ever, Batsy swings his amazing self from one roof to the next, eager to leap and pummel and Dark Knight his way into the delightful Winter Wonderland dear old Victor has so thoughtfully created in the middle of the financial district this holiday season. The citizens, being the humdrum drones that they are, don’t appreciate his efforts, but Joker does — Victor’s icy decorations really are an improvement over the dime-a-dozen monochrome twinklies the boring corporate suits mistake for Christmas cheer. Personally Joker would have gone with a little more color — a touch of purple perhaps, a hefty helping of green and, naturally, lots and lots of lovely festive red, including the deep, dribbly variety. But Victor has been doing so very well with his glistening still life number that Joker really is rather impressed. He particularly enjoyed the gag with the slippery businessmen tumbling and flailing in the most comical way over the ice-sheeted street until Victor’s handy little thingamabob caught their hilarious acrobatics in pretty twinkling ice for all to admire. The streets look so much better this way, and in that respect it’s a shame that Batsy is here now to shatter all that ice to itsy bitsy little shards.
On the other hand, Joker has gone to all the trouble of slipping away from Arkham to see him work tonight, and he’d hate to be disappointed.
“Any second now, Gregory,” he tells the gargoyle to his right. “You’ll see.”
He settles in a bit more comfortably in the cozy stone nook of the cathedral tower, draws the stolen coat tighter around himself and tucks his itchy hands into his own armpits. He wishes the coat was purple but alas, one has to improvise with what one’s got when one’s on a one-night run from the authorities, and anyway, the Santa hat he swiped off a mannequin should make up for the dull brown. At least the drab old thing is warmer than Joker’s Arkham jumpsuit, and up here in the windswept air that paws at Joker with its grabby little icicle fingers, it does make a difference.
Joker breathes out, and is temporarily distracted by the swirly shapes his breath makes in the cold, biting air. One of them looks like a dragon, he thinks, with its wings cut off. Or maybe a bat. Which isn’t exactly a surprise — Joker finds that everything will eventually resemble a bat if given enough time.
But down below the actual Bat is beginning to fight Victor in earnest, and he’s so utterly beautiful when he’s working that Joker’s heart throbs in that delicious warm-raw way, and he has no trouble at all focusing every scrap of attention he has on his man, all misty shapes and biting frost instantly forgotten.
He only notices the snowfall when a big fat flake settles on his nose before melting into his skin, leaving a cold wet spot. Joker laughs because it’s hilarious, and he looks around to see more flakes sitting on him like so many miniscule pigeons. They nest in his hair too, and on his hat, and the ugly coat. Victor’s doing? Possibly — Joker’s been too busy watching Batsy to pay Vic any heed. He wonders if, should he sit very very still for a minute or so, the snow would cover him from head to toe. Would Batman try to sit on him like he does on all the other gargoyles? Now there’s an entertaining mental image. Joker giggles to himself indulging in it, and maybe this is why he misses the moment when, Victor safely beaten and bound, Batsy spots him up on the Cathedral tower and makes his way over.
“What are you doing here?” Batsy asks. He’s kind enough to stand in just the right place to throw his hulking shadow all over Joker, and Joker shivers, delighting in it. Batsy doesn’t sound hostile tonight as much as he sounds exasperated, and resigned. It’s curious, and Joker cocks his head at him.
“I came to watch you work, darling,” he tells Batsy eagerly. “It’s Christmas Eve and I got lonely.”
Batsy studies him.
“That’s it?” he asks after a beat.
Joker takes care to give him the single most angelic-est smile he can manage. “Yup, that’s it.”
“And you don’t have any bombs stashed away anywhere?”
To this, Joker unfolds from his tight warm curl to demonstrate the jumpsuit under the trenchcoat. “No time, see?” he says, wiggling his fingers. “And it’s too cold for all that anyway.”
Batsy takes another few moments to consider him, which is fine, because Joker considers him right back. He likes to consider Batsy so very much, especially with Batsy looking huge and majestic and triumphant right after a fight. The sight makes Joker’s blood rush and his heart go pitter-patter, and he smiles at it, wondering if the blush is showing on his cheeks. They certainly feel stingy enough.
Or maybe that’s just the frostbite.
“How long have you been sitting here?” Batsy asks.
Joker gives the question due consideration. “Well, let’s see,” he muses. “I knew Vicky was going to stage his little show here at nine, and I got out of Arkham right after dinner, and it usually takes me about an hour to get to town…”
Batsy shakes his head.
“The coat?” he asks.
“The owner’s still alive if that’s what you’re wondering,” Joker tells him sweetly. “Merry Christmas.”
“I’m taking you back,” Batsy decides.
“Okie doke.” Joker sticks out his arm, and after a beat, Batsy takes it, helping Joker to his feet. “Heave ho!”
His joints crack in the most hilarious way as he straightens up and he grins, flexing the fingers of his left hand. They don’t want to obey him at first. Amused, Joker presents this to Batsy, who sighs and tightens his grip on Joker’s other arm, tugging.
“Come on,” he says, “I’ll get us down.”
Now this is an offer Joker is never going to pass up on. Delighted, he jumps into Batsy’s arms and holds on tight, taking full advantage of the opportunity to warm up his nose against the fabric of Batsy’s cape. It’s cold and wet from all the ice down there, but that’s fine because strong arms are winding around him and keeping him close, and a second later Joker closes his eyes against the rush of wind as the cathedral roof is kicked out from under him.
He’s glad he didn’t kill that guy with the coat now. If he had, Batsy probably wouldn’t be so accommodating and while a Grumpy Bat is hilarious, tonight Joker definitely prefers the kind of Bat that gives him joyrides across city rooftops.
By the time they touch down Joker’s eyes are watering from the wind and his insides are all gooey softness and his mind, for the moment, eases in its relentless noise to leave only quiet, fluffy echoes. He smiles up at Batsy as they both stand in the dark alley where the car is parked, and gently brushes snow off of Batsy’s shoulder.
“Thank you, sweetie,” he says.
Batsy turns and opens the passenger door. “Get inside. And take that coat off. It’s sodding wet.”
Batsy’s concern makes Joker’s skin glow all warm as he obediently sheds the coat, drops it to the ground without ceremony and crawls into the passenger seat, still wearing the floppy Santa hat.
His body is shivering, and keeps shivering when Batsy gets into the driver’s seat and seals them in. Joker sits back and breathes in the familiar smells of expensive leather, kevlar and oil. He had hoped that tonight would end with a Batmobile ride. It’s always such a treat…
And then Batsy starts the engine and does something else too, something that gets the seat under Joker slowly warming up.
“Oh, darling,” Joker breathes, startled at the sudden heat under his backside, prodding past the wet suit and chilled skin right into his tired old bones. “This is nice.” A deep groan slips past his mouth as he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the seat. “Very nice indeed. I didn’t know you had heated seats in here, you devil!”
Batsy doesn’t respond. He’s driving out of the alley, pretending he isn’t shooting Joker furtive glances as he does.
Joker smiles and lets him keep at the charade. He glances lazily out the window at the glimmering Christmassy Gotham outside and revels in the moment — the thrum of the car greeting him like an old friend, the lights and decorations, the distant echo of police sirens no doubt come to apprehend Victor, and isn’t it just marvelous that he didn’t get a Batmobile ride while Joker did? The smug satisfaction that comes with this knowledge. The wonderful warmth of the seat, like the embrace of two humongous leathery wings cradling him close. The smells in the car. Batsy’s closeness.
He really is getting old, he thinks distantly, and doesn’t really mind. For tonight, he’s got everything he could possibly want, which he supposes only proves his point. The hassle and thrill of the Arkham escape earlier today were more than enough to get the worst of the dark, swirly itch out of his system, and now only add to his contented state, leaving him with a sated kind of melancholia he doesn’t bother to keep at bay these days.
Now, if only he’d had the foresight to steal some mistletoe…
“Needs more color,” he observes quietly.
“What does?” Batsy asks after a moment, almost grudgingly.
Joker notices that they have slowed down and are taking the roundabout way through Gotham downtown. He smiles.
“Everything,” he muses. “The lights are boring. Yellow, yellow, yellow everywhere. You’d think after all these years of me trying to liven things up the city fathers would learn some creativity.”
“I thought you liked Christmas.”
“I do,” Joker agrees. “I love it. It’s so pretty when you’re at the top of the city looking down.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Shame you can’t see it from Arkham.”
“If you’re trying to guilt-trip me —”
“No,” Joker protests, even though he is, just a little bit, just to see how Bats would react. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He smirks. Batsy almost, almost smirks back.
“And you really came all this way…”
“To spend Christmas Eve with you? Yes.” Joker stretches, and the seat feels so, so good against his body that he releases another sigh of pleasure straight from the depths of his belly. “I didn’t expect the royal treatment though,” he purrs, shooting Bats a look from under lidded eyes. “You didn’t even cuff me.”
Bats offers no comments on that, and that’s okay. Joker didn’t think he would. Bats appreciates his plausible deniability far too much to rise to this kind of bait and admit anything out loud. It’s enough that Joker’s noticed, and let him know that he has, and that he appreciates what it means. It’s how they’ve gotten by all these years, and Joker knows better than to expect those old habits to die now — they’re both far too entrenched.
Or at least he’s thought so. Bats does surprise him a few moments later when he asks, “When was the last time you ate?”
“Oh? Ummmm,” Joker thinks about it, scrunching up his face to coax the memory closer to the surface. “Breakfast,” he decides, finally arriving at the aftertaste of soggy eggs with a carton of orange juice. “I skipped dinner.”
“Why?”
“I needed time to make myself pretty for you,” Joker sends Bats a wink. “And besides, I didn’t feel like stringy chicken with a side of slop five days in a row.”
Bats gives a noncommittal hum. He drives in silence for a while and Joker is content to let him — those heated seats really are a marvelous invention. He sighs again, sinking into the leather.
His eyes want to close and he doesn’t fight them, and doesn’t really care that he keeps making pleased noises into the silence. Batsy doesn’t say anything to stop him, though Joker does feel the weight of his attention on him like the concentrated heat of a candle flame too close to skin. He basks in it, shifting and stretching, and enjoys the moment for what it is, carefully cataloging each and every second that passes so he can dig them out to keep himself warm in his cell for weeks to come.
And then, instead of speeding into the familiar road that leads straight to Arkham, the car turns. The surprise jolts Joker awake from the half-doze he’s fallen into and he blinks in the darkness. He can just about make out the trees shooting up in droves like a silent tolkienesque army on either side of the old empty road, and the inky-purple sky above them, glowing with the distant aura of Gotham, but that’s it. He has no idea where they are.
“Batsy?” he asks, a spark of thrill lighting up his sleepy stomach. “Are you kidnapping me?”
Batsy stays silent. The spark of intrigue catches on the silence and turns into a sizzle. Joker sits up, cracking his joints again as he tries to fit his long legs into the space available to him. That makes him wonder if he could make his joints play a tune — something to work at in Arkham when he has nothing better to do.
But then of course he needs to figure out what sort of tune he wants them to play, and the project occupies him for a minute or so during which Batsy drives them into an even older road, empty as the last one and far, far narrower. The car bumps once or twice and Joker’s head hits the window. That distracts him again, and he’s back to relishing the tingly, electric current of anticipation.
He’s not worried — he knows Batsy won’t kill him. And if he does, well, Joker has to admit it would be rather romantic to die with Batsy’s hands around his throat at long last, in the snow, knowing he’s finally won, and on Christmas Eve no less. In his mind, he pictures the scene happening under a mistletoe and shudders all over at the beauty of it. He turns to Batsy to tell him to find a spot under a mistletoe tree —
The car turns again and then slows down to roll, to finally stop in a snow-covered clearing, on the edge of a steep cliff by the riverbank. And as it does, before them, on the other side of the river, Gotham sprawls and glitters far into the night.
“Batsy,” Joker whispers over the painful, wonderful twist in his heart.
Batsy kills the engine and sits back. He isn’t looking at Joker — very pointedly so — and for a moment, keeps quiet.
Then he says, “There’s some sandwiches in the compartment by your legs, if you’re hungry.”
Joker isn’t particularly — his stomach is far too busy doing delighted somersaults for that — but he fishes in the compartment anyway, and retrieves two sandwiches carefully wrapped in cooking foil. He passes one to Batsy, who accepts. They unwrap the sandwiches in silence and munch on them for a bit, looking ahead at the bright, glowing, scintillating panorama, and Joker doesn’t even register the taste of the food on his tongue. Not when there’s the view to take in, and even more than that, the fact that Batsy would share this moment with him in the first place, and the thought fills him with so much love he hardly knows what to do with it all short of climbing into Batsy’s lap right then and there and kissing him until his mouth falls off.
Or, well. There’s other ways he could let it out, he supposes. He decides not to share any of them with Bats, though — he has a feeling it might ruin the mood.
So he lets the moment linger. He eats half of his sandwich before stuffing the rest of it back in the foil and into the compartment, and sits back, observing both Gotham and its twinkly reflection in the icy river. The snow around them sparkles too, and it’s like the clearing is cast in its own special little dimension carved out just for the two of them, just for tonight.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Bats tells him, quietly, once his own sandwich is done. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“Of course,” Joker allows, although it does, and Bats is far too smart not to know that.
“I’m still taking you back.”
“I know.”
“I just wanted to —”
“Batsy.” Joker decides to put the man out of his misery and gently lays a hand down on Batsy’s knee, and squeezes. “Thank you for this.”
Batsy finally meets his eyes. This time he doesn’t look away.
Instead, his hand covers Joker’s and squeezes back for the tiniest slice of a second before Joker’s hand is shoved off, and he’s starting the engine again, and pulling back out into the road, and staring straight ahead.
They don’t speak the rest of the way to Arkham, and that’s just fine with Joker. They don’t need to. His hand tingles and burns from Batsy’s touch and his heart brims and brims and brims with love, and that’s good. That’s wonderful. He loves this man with everything that burdens him, all that beautiful, beautiful pain, and the weight and the darkness and the anger so much like his own. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to cut him open and hold that gorgeous heart in his hand, see it bleed for real, feel it hot and sticky in his hand, find out if it really is as heavy as he imagines it must be — but not tonight. Tonight, they have a sparkly city and cold cathedral rooftops and wind in their ears and the smell of leather, and silence.
And for Joker, in this single moment, that is more than enough.