Obnoxiously Revealing

I'm thinking about coming back...

2017-02-23T07:24:54Z

I need a place to air out my feelings. Might re-open this blog.

Entitled and re: Entitled

2015-04-04T23:47:41Z

My response to a dude who was JAQing off in a rape thread on FB and got very huffy when I told him to stop it:

" Just to talk to you human-to-human for a second—I have been where you are. I know it’s uncomfortable to have a person jump down your throat for what seem to you well-meaning statements and arguments. But there are two reasons that I’ve chosen to engage with you this way:

"1. Being a professor is what I do for a living; I don’t work for free. What you’ve done here isn’t educate yourself—you are asking others to put in the hard work of educating you. You are repeating things that we have heard a million times before and getting frustrating when those ideas are treated like the nonsense they are. I get it—it is a blow to your ego. But it’s an important thing to learn if you truly want to be an advocate for women and against rape culture. Education is something you have to do yourself, by listening, asking questions, reading and learning. You can’t ask the teacher for the answer (a good teacher doesn’t give it.) You have to go and do the work of figuring it out because the lesson IS figuring it out for yourself.

"2. Being a good advocate also means that you interrupt the dominant paradigm where possible. Just as I was yelled at by the black folks that I well-meaningly argued with when I was first engaging with anti-racist work, so too must you endure your hurt feelings now in order to (hopefully) learn a larger truth—that oppressed people don’t owe you anything.

"No one is obliged to spend their time educating you.

"Julie has been incredibly gracious to you and deserves your thanks for her generosity, but that generosity is not owed to you. As a man, you are cultured to think that women owe you their time, their attention, and their kindness. Being a good advocate means retraining your brain to realize that this is false. Interrupting the dominant paradigm of micro-aggressions against women (esp on this topic) means that you don’t come into the convo with expectations and a sense of entitlement.

I do understand that this is difficult. I don’t expect you to do this perfectly. But I do expect and demand that you do better than you’ve done here. If you can’t treat women like human beings, then your allyship is worthless.”

Of course, he comes back to the thread TWO DAYS LATER to tell me how “hurt” he is that I “attacked his character” and how I’m just “mean.”

This is why I don’t try to talk to dudes with shitty attitudes about feminist issues, honestly. They act like misogynists, but demand you give them the benefit of the doubt that they aren't really misogynists. They argue with me about my own lived experience, but then protest that they are “just learning” and that “arguing helps their process.” They fly into a rage when I refuse to hold their hand and lead them gently to a point, all the while soothing their egos in hushed tones.

It is really not worth it most of the time.

Rare Pair Rec List

2015-04-04T23:45:00Z

Basically, these are the fics that got me into a fandom/pairing that I NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS imagined I’d be into…

Once Upon a Time in Mexico: Sands/El

This is a pairing that shouldn’t work. But, against all reason, it really really does.

The Dark Knight: Batman/Joker

I’ve written a dozen fics for this pairing, and this was the fic that made me see its potential.

The Dark Knight Rises: Bane/John Blake

Again, doesn’t seem to work on paper but the author somehow makes it work in insanely wonderful ways.

Downton Abbey: Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent

The romance is one-sided in canon, but fanon has a way of making me root for even the most misanthropic under-butlers.

ASoIaF/Game of Thrones: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark

Aged up (as in the show) or taking place years after the end of the series, this pairing can really work.

Les Miserables: Jean Valjean/Javert

I have been listening to this musical for years and never saw it, then read this fic and was like, “Well yeah, of course.”

Glee: Dave Karofsky/Kurt Hummel

This pairing in problematic as fuck because of the intense bullying in the series, but poetikat has managed to write a graceful, beautiful story of redemption that happens slowly and believably.

Don't shut me down...

2015-04-03T23:04:41Z

I suppose I should post something so that LJ doesn't shut down my journal.

Fic: Fool for Lesser Things--Downton Abbey/Harry Potter fusion fic

2014-10-26T05:54:45Z

Title: Fool for Lesser Things

Author: Cyranothe2nd

Rating: Teen

Fandom: Downton Abbey/Harry Potter fusion

Pairings: Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent, Thomas Barrow/OC

Warnings: blood status bigotry, non-major character death

Summary: When Thomas is invited to the wedding of an old school friend from Hogwarts, he must choose between his budding relationship with Jimmy and a life in the Wizarding world.

Author’s Note: This fic is a response to Flippyspoon’s prompt that asked for “Thomas as a Muggleborn Slytherin.” However, this went in a direction that I did not really expect.I tried to maintain the canon of both series as much as possible, but I’m sure I’ve missed something. Finally, this fic was written over a weekend and is unbetaed. All mistakes are my own.

Read here

Podfic: Afire

2014-09-27T05:51:18Z

Title: Afire
Author: Are
Reader: cyranothe2nd
Length: 1: 54 minutes, 105 MB, mp3
Rating & Warnings: R, AU, first time, fantasy, firestarter, canon through series 4
Pairing/Characters: Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent
Author's Summary: Jimmy has a very strange ability. Thomas discovers it. Together, they try to work it out. I could have literally copied and pasted the lyrics of 'Burning Down The House' in here and it would have been a better description than I can come up with right now.
Reader's Notes: Music from 'Fearness' by Jang Yeong-gyu

Download here

Podfic: He Remembers Dying

2013-12-19T01:49:58Z

Title:He Remembers Dying
Author: aralias
Reader: cyranothe2nd
Length: 11:46 min, 10.7 MB, mp3
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: The Master/10th Doctor
Author's Summary: He remembers dying. He remembers dying and the drums have stopped, which means he must be dead. Logically.
Warnings: spoilers for 'Last of the Timelords'
Reader's Notes: Music from 'I Don't Want Love' by The Antlers

download here

Podfic: To Dive Into the Fire

2013-12-19T00:44:13Z

Title: To Dive Into the Fire
Author: tierfal
Reader: cyranothe2nd
Length: 30 minutes, 26.8 MB, mp3
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: The Master/10th Doctor
Author's Summary: In which the Doctor is oblivious and boring and depressed, so the Master takes matters into his own hands.
Warnings: the Master is sketchy and sex-starved; mild smut; some language; Shakespeare; shameless pop culture references; another S3 Master-as-a-really-bad-companion AU
Reader's Notes: Music from 'Closet Romantic' by Damon Albarn and image by the BBC

Download here

'Don Jon' review

2013-09-29T07:31:43Z

Just saw Joseph Gordon Levitt’s directoral debut, Don Jon. So, this movie was not what I expected. And I say that in the best way possible. The movie was unexpected and fresh. Better yet, it has a feminist, progressive message that was thought-provoking but not preachy.

So, the movie features Jon (JGL), a New Jersey dudebro who sees women in terms of numbers (1-10) and prefers porn to the selfish sex he has with randos he pulls at the club. This all ends when he meets Barbara (Scarlett Johansson). Case closed—typical love story.

Wrong.

JGL’s script is smarter than that. First, the movie makes you complicit in rooting for Jon/Barbara, even though there are obvious, glaring problems in the relationship (Barbara hates porn, Jon lies.) Both characters are written in a realistic way, with flaws that stem from social conditioning, both of gender roles and what gender roles mean in romantic relationships. The real centerpiece of the film is not the romance between Jon and Barbara, but the fragile friendship between Jon and Esther (Julianne Moore). I won’t say more because I do not want to spoil the movie, but suffice it to say that Jon has to learn to interact with women as PEOPLE, not as objects-to-be-fucked. And his redemption is gradual, and painful, and unsentimental.

It is rare for a film to take on issues like porn and the false expectations it generates, without preaching a “all porn is eeeeeevil” agenda. And this film is refreshing in it’s sex-positivity, while still maintaining that sex is about *connecting.* I enjoyed this movie so much that I am going back to the theater next weekend to watch it again.

Run down: Don Jon’ has an R rating for lots and lots of graphic depictions of porn, sex, sex noises, etc. There is also a minimal amount of violence, some swearing and a few homophobic slurs, as well as some sexist ways of talking about women. However, these things are contextualized and not explained away or excused.

Score: 10/10—really clever, progressive movie, wonderful script, well-acted and beautifully directed.

Podfic: As Is

2013-09-17T05:40:45Z

Title: As Is
Author: arsinicarcher
Reader: cyranothe2nd
Fandom: Avengers, Iron Man
Paring: Clint/Coulson
Rating: R for slavery, past non-con and torture, maiming of major character
Length: ~ 6 hours, mp3, 310.66 MB in 2 zipfiles
Music: "Reign of Love," Coldplay

Summary: In a world where people are put on the market as commodities for all sorts of reasons, and SHIELD buys those who might be useful to them, Coulson makes what seems, at the time, to be an ill-advised purchase.

Part One
Part Two

Readers Notes: This is one of those wonderful AU fics that just stay with you. There is so much to adore about this fic, from the slow buildup, to the frank discussions of consent and recovery. It's a truly remarkable fic and I'm so so pleased to have been able to pod it. Please leave feedback for the author. Thanks for listening!

Podfic: Three Batfics by me

2013-09-07T04:14:15Z

Title: Break My Fall
Author & Reader:cyranothe2nd
Fandom: Batman (movies--Nolan)
Paring: Bruce Wayne/Jack, Batman/Joker
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex and canon-typical violence
Length: 2:34:36, mp3, 140 MB
Music: 'I Will Possess Your Heart,' Deathcab for Cutie

Summary: Bruce is sixteen years old when he meets Jack, and everything changes. Batman is thirty-four years old when he meets Joker, and everything ends.

Podfic Link: Download here
-----------------------------------***--------------------------

Title: Mine Is the Heart I Will Save
Author & Reader:cyranothe2nd
Fandom: Batman (Movies--Nolan)
Paring: Batman/Joker
Rating: PG-13 for non-graphic violence, language, sexual situations
Length: 46:01, mp3, 42.1 MB
Music: 'Shoot Your Gun,' 22-20s

Summary: "You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for ya, Bats. I’d give it all up if you’d just bend a little.”

Podfic Link: download here

-----------------------------------***--------------------------

Title: Did We Not Choose Each Other
Author & Reader:cyranothe2nd
Fandom: Batman (Movies--Nolan)
Paring: Batman/Joker
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content, pwp
Length: 31:10, mp3, 28.5 MB
Music: 'Scale,' Interpol

Summary: Was it the dancing?

Podfic Link: download here

Reader's Notes: This podfic and story is the sequal to 'Mine Is the Heart I Will Save.'

Podfic: All My Love is for You

2013-09-07T03:52:04Z

Title: All My Love is for You
Author: blue_jack
Reader: cyranothe2nd
Fandom: The Avengers (2012)
Paring: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Rating: PG
Length: 15:43, mp3, 14.4 Mb
Music: 'I Like' by The Divine Comedy

Summary: The thing is, Tony totally knows that Steve’s interested.

Text Link
Podfic Link

Readers Notes: With much thanks to blue_jack for writing this. I had so much fun podding you, you have no idea!

Podfic: Axiom

2013-09-07T03:46:23Z

Title: Axiom
Author: RC_McLachlan
Reader: cyranothe2nd
Fandom: Avengers, Iron Man
Paring: Loki/Tony Stark
Rating: R for major character injury, sexual situations, violence
Length: 2:40:17, mp3 zipfile, 373 Mb
Music: ‘Lonesome Dreams' by Lord Huron

Summary: An axiom is a mathematical starting point. Loki does not know the word for an ending.

Podfic Link

Readers Notes: The third and final installment of the Theorems series, sequel to Solve for X and Marathon.

Podficcing in my month off

2013-08-25T01:00:47Z

So, I'm off work until Sept 25th and, aside from PAX and a once-a-week teaching gig, I've got nothing to do. So, I'm doing podfics! My list so far--

Axiom: A Loki/Tony story that is absolutely heartrending. Also, last in a trilogy that I've podded previously.
http://archiveofourown.org/works/503478/chapters/884717

As Is: Clint/Coulson, Clint is a slave. OMG, hits every kink I have and then some!
http://archiveofourown.org/works/609150/chapters/1097653?show_comments=true#comment_4152569

It Feels Like Home: John/sherlock, John is a ghost living in 221 B. Wonderful!
http://etothepii.livejournal.com/5429.html

All my Love Is For You: Hot Tony talking.
http://archiveofourown.org/works/716292

Condonare: The most challenging fic for me to pod. A X-Men First Class/Hannibal Rising crossover (I KNOW!). Weird premise that really works.
http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/5215.html?thread=6291551#t6291551

Unlikely Connections: Mycroft/Lestrade goodness
http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/873907?show_comments=true#comment_4152562

I am also going to work on getting my pods onto Ao3. If you have any podfic requests, message me or leave them in comments. I've got nothing but free time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Zombies, Run: First Mission

2013-05-24T03:13:27Z

I've never done aerobic workouts. I am not into fitness in general, and always joke that I won't run unless something's chasing me so Zombies, Run is probably a good regime for me. :D More seriously, I have two reasons I'm trying to do this. First, I don't care a lot about losing weight. I like the way I look, for the most part, and losing weight won't change the things that annoy me (being unable to find clothes that fit my curvy frame). But I *do* want to be more fit. I want to be able to walk up a flight of stairs and not be winded. I want to be able to walk down to the store near my house and not dread the walk back. And second, which ties into the first--I have a 15 year old daughter. I am getting married in 5 months. I want to be around for a long long time. I don't want to have a heart-attack at 51, like my dad did.

So, I downloaded the Zombies, Run app, which is a 30-session interactive jogging app. The app cost $1.99 and took about 5 minutes to download. It's easy to use and syncs up with many music players (not Google play though). The app is built around individual "missions," which are audible podcasts that I listen to on my phone (mostly talking, interspersed with music.) I did the pre-mission on Tuesday, which was 30 minutes of walking while listening to some worldbuilding and backstory. I don't want to go into too many details of the storyline, just in case anyone wants to do the missions too. Basically, you're in a post-outbreak world with zombies, trying to survive by being trained to be a Runner, a person that makes runs for food and supplies into zombie territory.

My progress

Weight: 225 lbs

Distance: 2.2 miles

Duration: 30 minutes

Workout

So today was the first mission, which consisted of a 10 minute brisk walk, 10 minutes of wind-sprints (15 second run, 1 minute walk) and 10 minutes of free-walking. During that last period, I did 3 minutes of wind-sprints, 3 minutes of brisk walking and 4 minutes of cool-down.

Aftermath

The app is fun to use. The voice actors sound good, and there is just the right amount of updates ("Hey, you've done 5 minutes so far. Good job!") and story-building. It has an accelerometer, which doesn't work so well (it said I'd done 4.3 miles but Google maps says 2.2 miles.) It also has a GPS, which I will use from now on. The only complaint I have is that my earbuds keep popping out of my ears when I run. Does anyone know a good fix for that?

I took some ibuprofen before I began. I also stretched, but still had some pain in my right shoulder, so will have to spend more time stretching next time. I am pleasantly sore right now, but I don't feel horrible.

The running was not too much. I definitely felt like I could have run a little more without *dying,* but the point is to build endurance so I didn't try to push myself too hard. I feel really good about finishing a mission, and am looking forward to doing the next one on Saturday.

https://www.zombiesrungame.com

Wedding Dress redux part deux

2013-05-17T02:34:46Z

I spoke here about not really liking my wedding dress and feeling kinda gross about it. First, thank you to all who commented with encouragement and suggestions. I really appreciate your feedback. But the more I looked at pictures of myself, the more I realized what was bothering me. It wasn't that the dress was a little tight (it was) or that it was white when I had previously decided not to wear white (though I didn't love that.) It was that it just didn't feel like me.

That dress felt like a costume. It felt like I was trying too hard. Which is basically the way I dress when I panic and don't know what to wear.

So, I decided to send the dress back.

And I went back to the drawing board and thought, "If this was just a party and I was going to wear something that really made me feel great, what would that be?" What I came up with was something short, and form-fitting, that would show off all my curves and let a little bit of my tattoo peek out. I wanted something elegant and sexy, that made me feel wonderful when I put it on.

I found it. Can't show you a pic right now, as I had to buy the dress 1 size up to fit my hips and am getting it altered. But I LOVE IT. I love it so damn much that I might marry this dress! I want to wear it to everything! I LOVE IT!

Star Trek Into Darkness movie review

2013-05-17T02:21:40Z

So, Star Trek Into Darkness sucked. Self-indulgent, badly written nonsense.The problem with Abrams is that he likes to have people run around and shoot things, but writes stories that have a lot of plot holes. Example: he messed up a very emotional scene by having someone do something really silly in it, and also heavy-handedly foreshadowing that the outcome of the scene didn't actually matter. Which could have been avoided really easily as those foreshadows weren't necessary to the plot at all. He also has villains doing villain stuff for ~reasons,~ which was bad enough in the first movie, but now we get TWO villains doing stupid, malevolent things for no good reason.

There are characters that don't need to be in this movie, and characters that are absent from a good portion of the movie that absolutely need to be there. There's stupid, self-indulgent nonsense like showing a female officer in her underwear (lol, sexism is so edgy). There's a ton in inconsistent characterization. There's tech that makes no sense and isn't even hand-waved away by Trekno-babble.

Abrams admittedly never watched or liked Star Trek and it shows in his misunderstanding of certain plots and characters, and how he tries to do fan service. He's like a person who's never read a comic book, going to ComicCon and quoting all the Joker's lines from TDK at Batman fans. Yeah, we get it. You saw a movie once. But there's more to the fandom that that.

Look, I'm not a Trek purist. I LOVE the idea of an alt universe that is darker, where Kirk and Spock aren't friends, where both characters are not as consistently good as they are in main canon. But goddamn, if you're going to reboot a beloved franchise WRITE IT WELL. It doesn't have to be smart, or particularly sci-fi oriented. I went in expecting an action movie, because that's what Trek movies have become. But they can still be well-written action movies, with tight plots and believable character motivations and actual emotionally resonant moments.

This was just disappointing.

Iron Man III was good until the last 10 minutes

2013-05-05T02:20:33Z

So....that happened. We were going along with hilarious dialogue ("Dad's leave, kid; don't be a pussy about it.") and fighty action and omg, maybe Pepper died but she totally didn't.

And then.

And then...the last 10 minutes of the film.

Look, lets talk about it on a writing level. After the climactic final battle between Tony and Aldrin Killian, we get a Tony voice-over telling us, "Oh yeah, I fixed everything. The end." It was just a voiceover wrapping up everything in a neat little bow. It was summary. Did the director, Shane Black, run out of money? Couldn't he cut 10 minutes of an action sequence and film the actual ending? No, instead we get a stupid voiceover. I almost thought it didn't really happen. Like, Tony would do this VO of how he saved Pepper and how he had this awesome life with her and then it would be revealed to be a lie, or Bruce (hiya, after-credits Dr. Banner!) would just gently say, "But Tony, that's not what happened." But nope. It was just...a really weird choice in terms of writing.

Now, lets discuss how it worked on a plot level, because I think the choice is even weirder here. First, we find out that Pepper was dosed with Extremis (yet another attempt at the Super Soldier serum), a nano-technology that causes rapid healing and fire-bending type powers. But not to worry, Tony's VO tells us. He "fixed Pepper." Whatever that means. Is she human again? Did he simply resolve the issue that the Extremis serum has (ie, blowing up the subject)? No clue. The movie doesn't tell us.

Weirder was Tony's decision to 1. destroy all his Iron Man suits and 2. get rid of the arc reactor. We are supposed to see this as Tony giving this great gift to Pepper, him moving forward in his life and dealing with the trauma and PTSD he experienced after almost dying in Avengers. However, it seemed more like a desperate attempt to hold on to Pepper, who seemed hectoring and generally annoyed at Tony the entire movie.

Case in point: 30ish minutes into the movie, Tony finally admits that he is having panic attacks and can't sleep. Pepper propositions him and they fall asleep together. Tony suffers from a nightmare and an automated Iron Man suit responds to his panic, grabbing Pepper and scaring her. It is clear that Tony feels like complete shit about it, on top of still being heart-racingly terrified when he wakes up. Pepper's response? "I'm going to sleep in the other room!" Not, "Oh my god, honey are you okay? How long has this been going on? Do you want to talk about it?" Her response just seemed so out of place. Its clear to me that she doesn't love him anymore, but they both haven't admitted it to themselves. So Tony is trying even harder to be "normal" and Pepper treats him even more like a screw up. Clearly, this is going to be resolved in Avengers 2 with the tired old, "I-gave-up-that-life/if-you-go-I-won't-be-here-when-you-get-back" trope. Which *siiiiiiiigh* Come on, movie! You were SO. CLEVER. until then.

There was definitely a way that this ending could have been written, where it was clear that both Tony and Pepper were lying to themselves and to us-the audience. Where they are trying so hard for a happy ending, but we know its not true. Where Tony is shown to be an unreliable narrator. But the author didn't do this. The author wanted us to believe that this was a genuinely happy ending. That Tony trashing his work and getting rid of the arc reactor was a step forward. That Tony crippling himself to keep Pepper happy was a legitimately good decision, instead of a desperate, self-defeating and cowardly way to resolve their relationship issues.

Obviously, Tony's whole "I am Iron Man, but I don't need to suit/arc reactor/superheroing" can only last so long, especially in light of the impending rise of Thanos. But I just wish the movie didn't take this weasel way out of its own plot. Would it have been too difficult to have Tony and Pepper actually discuss their issues? Or, god forbid, break up at the end of the movie instead of riding off into the sunset? Why did the movie have to pull out the most cliche superhero trope at the end? Sure, Tony Got The Girl, but at the cost of what makes him him. I like Tony Stark as a character. I hate to see him neutered when the writer so obviously wants us to think that this was a good decision.

Was the movie good? Hell yes. I would pay to watch it 10 more times. It was immensely entertaining and had some laugh-out-loud great moments, mostly due to Robert Downey Jr's fantastic delivery and the always wonderful Ben Kingsley. But the last 10 minutes...Yeah, I'm gonna need some fan fic retcon stat!

To JK Rowling, from Cho Change

2013-04-23T04:09:34Z

Wonderful!

Mark Ruffalo just found out about Sciece Bros

2013-04-22T05:14:35Z

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, I CAN'T!!!! LOL FOREVA!~!!!!!

http://www.newnownext.com/mark-ruffalo-gay-robert-downey-jr-science-bros/04/2013/

Polyamory, D/s, and Feminism

2013-03-28T00:08:48Z

I've been thinking a lot about the intersection between polyamory, D/s and my (increasingly rageful) feminist sensibilities. Certainly, the poly and D/s worlds are chock-full of objectifiers, essentialist and PUAs on the prowl. Its a gross scene out there.

Some thoughts
Objectification: Some objectification always takes place when one is fantasizing about sex. Its not like I make up elaborate backstories just so I can imagine people fucking (except when I do). I don't care what goes on in your internal world, so long as that world doesn't affect me in material ways. The problem lies in the area of "affecting me." See, there are some profiles I read or messages I receive where it is clear that this guy (and I'm not trying to generalize; its just that 99.9% of the time, it IS a guy) is typing with his dick. He hasn't read my profile, doesn't care at all about me as a person. What he wants is a fantasy. He wants to jerk off to the response he imagines I will send.

This is gross. Its demeaning to wade through message after message like this--on both sides (as a Domme, and on my alt sub profile). Especially when I have made it motherfucking clear that I do not enjoy messages like these. What ticks me off the most through is to have to delete 10 such messages every day, then read those same guys crying about how they can never find anyone "real" and how all the women on the site are "fakers." Protip: Have you tried treating us like real people?

Essentializing: I DESPISE the "You're a natural sub/dom/poly/kinkgurl" bullshit. People change. People's interests change. Please stop acting like there is some essential sexual core of myself that I am tapping into when I decide to pull your hair/get my hair pulled. This is especially revolting because I've played all sides of the sexual game: I've been a sub and a Domme. I've been monogamous and poly. I've been with men and women. And I can say without equivocation that there is no "essential" part of me that is submissive or dominant. There's just me, and my mood and what I'm interested in at that time.

I guess what sets me off about this is that dudes (and some women, as well) use this as a frame for which to see the world, and want to bang on about the "natural place" of people, as if we lived in Gor or some shit. And guess who's "natural place" they *always* want to pontificate about? If you said "Women" then dingdingding you win (or not). It's almost always misogynistic but, even when its not, it denies what I think is a basic truth about sex-- that our interests change over time and that there is nothing wrong with that.

PUA: I've been chatting with this guy lately who makes a huge point to use my "real" name (like fuck will I give these people my real name) every other sentence. It threw me off at first, especially because he coupled it with the kind of arrogant patter like "I will forgive you for not sending me a message this once, Allie" that I've heard a lot of times before. And then it hit me--Oh lol, this dude is trying to Game me. If you don't know, PUAs (Pick Up Artists) are men that treat dating like a Game and basically try to fool women into sleeping with them through the tried-and-true techniques of some douchebag in an enormous furry hat. Its very sad. But also full of lolz.

What this particular dude was doing is called a neg. It's where a PUA offers an low-grade insult, designed to lower self-esteem and make you more susceptible to their advances. Example: "You are a really simple person. I like that." (This guy actually said that to me.) It seems like PUA culture has infected the poly and D/s scenes, making the online meet market even grosser than usual. Like, a lot of Dom/mes already have a problem approaching people in genuine, fun and non-weird ways. Throwing PUA into the mix is like trying to fish with a rollerskate. You might bonk a fish on the head, bout you're gonna have a hard time bringing it onto the boat.

So, what does all this have to do with feminism? Only that the more I'm in these spaces, the more I feel like my humanity is denied denied denied. And this isn't a problem with online spaces specifically, or even online dating specifically. There are plenty of spaces where I feel like people are talking *to* me. And, I should add, there are plenty of good and decent people in D/s and poly spaces as well. Maybe this is a problem of an online meeting place that is specifically for talking about a sexual interest. People become collapsed into that sexual interest.

In any event, I have serious online kink fatigue.

Walking Away From Faith

2013-03-24T01:24:43Z

People ask me why I left the faith I grew up in. It’s a long story, but I will try to condense it down as much as I can.

I guess it’s important for you to know two things about me first: 1. I really believed in the Christian god, the literal interpretation of the Bible, all of that. It was never an act. That’s why it was so intensely painful to leave my faith; because I believed very strongly in it. And 2. I have always valued truth over the comfort an idea gave me. Some people say, “So what if god exists? The idea gives me comfort.” That never worked for me. When I was a Christian, I believed I knew the truth: the Bible was the literal word of God, God intervened in human affairs, cared about us in a personal way, and wanted us to believe and call upon the name of Christ. I thought there was sufficient evidence to believe these things, and I spent a lot of time learning apologetics (theological arguments) in order to prove this to others. I think I’m a lot like my Dad in that way—I care about what is true, what can be proved, what makes sense and comports with evidence.

There were two reasons that I left my faith and ultimately became an atheist. The first was that Erik came out as gay. Erik was my best friend since we were in the 4^th grade and him coming out really rocked me world. I was taught the standard conservative Christian stuff gay people—that they are deluding themselves, that gay love is unnatural, that gay partnerships contribute to the breakdown of society, that acting on being gay is a sin-- even really hateful things like that gay people prey on children or were preyed on as children. But talking to my friend…none of this was true. I saw how much he hated himself because people had been telling him stuff like that his whole life. It broke my heart, because I knew I was one of them. *I* had told him his love was wrong, and immoral and sinful. And the more I thought about it, the more I thought, “No. This isn’t right. This isn’t just.” Because I could look at my friend and see that he wasn’t immoral. He wasn’t sinful. He was just gay. That’s what he was, and it was unfair for any god to make him that way and then ask him to never be sexual with anyone. A god that would do that to someone was hateful and childish. I just couldn’t believe that god could be good and could make Erik that way and then condemn him for it. So I thought, “Well, my idea of who god is must be wrong.”

And so I started to try to figure out who god must be. If I believed in a loving god, but the Bible said that being gay was a sin, then how could I reconcile those things? It took a lot of study and soul-searching, but in the end I began to believe that maybe god was bigger than the Bible—that the Bible was written by people who maybe put their own opinion into it, and that perhaps it wasn’t right about everything. If god was loving, then being gay had to be okay, because Erik was a good and loving person who wasn’t hurting anyone. If god was loving, then there couldn’t be a hell, because the very idea that a loving god would burn people for eternity was cruel and horrible.

This wasn’t easy for me. It was terrifying. To think that maybe I had been wrong about some things…it was horrible. I had build my whole life around the idea that the Bible was literally true. Without that, understanding who god was and what he wanted was very difficult. But on the other hand, I saw more and more evidence that it had to be true—from archeological evidence, to textural evidence, to scientific evidence. All the evidence that I found led to the same conclusion—there’s no way that the Bible can be literally true about everything that it says. It comforted be to believe that I had all the answers in a neat black book. But it just wasn’t true.

The second thing was that I became involved with an online community of people who had left (or, like me, were in the process of leaving) fundamentalism (fundamentalism=the belief that the Bible is literally true). Some of the people there retained their faith. Like me, they were still searching for god and found him in different faiths (some people were still Christians, a lot of them were pantheists or simply spiritual) but there was a contingent of atheists there, too. At this time (2001), I still thought atheists were bad people. Like, how could a person be good without god? Where did their morality come from? So, I challenged these people, and asked a lot of questions and got into a lot of arguments. And they challenged me right back, and answered my questions, and really made me think. The more I thought about their arguments, the more I just couldn’t defend my belief in the Christian god anymore.

I remember asking god, “If you are there, give me some sign. Anything! Let me know you’re out there.”

Nothing happened.

This was the hardest, scariest thing I ever did. I thought, “Okay. Okay *deep breath* Maybe the Christian god doesn’t really exist.” (wait to get hit by lightning) “Oh my word, what if he doesn’t exist??? What does that mean?! How can I be a good person without god? What can I believe in?!” That went on for months. It was horrible. It broke my heart to leave my faith. I wanted so much to just believe it all again, and to have the assurance that I’d had before. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle. I couldn’t talk myself into believing something that I didn’t think was true.

For a while I embraced other faith traditions. It wasn’t until 2004 that I said to myself, “You know Jenae, it might be comforting to believe that there’s some distant Big Thing out there, but do you really think it’s true?” And no. I really didn’t. So I put on the atheist label. I think I was probably an atheist back in 2002, but I just didn’t want to wear that label because it seemed so negative. It felt like saying that life was hopeless. It took me a while to accept that I was me who was attaching that meaning to atheism, and that it could simply mean, “I haven’t seen enough evidence to convince me that a god exists.” I’m open to evidence that there is such a thing as a supernatural being that cares about the affairs of human persons, but I don’t think it exists (and if it does, it has a lot of explaining to do because the world is a pretty awful place sometimes!)

I’m okay with there not being a god. I don’t wish for my faith back, and I don’t envy those that have it (though I don’t feel the contempt that some atheists feel for people of faith either, those who call believers “delusion” or “stupid,” because I’ve been a believer and I know that’s mostly not true.) Because I don’t believe in an afterlife where bad people are punished and good people are rewarded, I have to try to create a just world here, right now. I have a moral duty to do what I can to create a better world. That’s the code I live my life by, and I don’t really need a god for that—I just need to have empathy and compassion for other people.

So yeah…that’s a condensed version of my walking away from faith story. Feel free to ask me what you want. I’m open to talking about it.

Break My Fall 4/4

2013-03-12T00:20:52Z

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

“Heard you’re going to Princeton.”

Bruce feels his blood run cold. His hand clenches on the phone receiver and he sinks heavily onto the bed. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Read it in Gotham Today,” Jack says evenly.

And Bruce feels like utter shit. He’d given the interview weeks ago, answering the question about his college plans without thought. Of course it would be published, and of course Jack would see it.

“You shouldn’t have found out like that. I’m s—“

“Don’t,” Jack snaps at him. “We both knew this was coming.”

Bruce says nothing. He hadn’t been sure that Jack knew it was coming, actually.

“And I’ve heard that Princeton is great,” Jack continues. His voice is sugar-coated and over-bright. Bruce shifts uneasily but tries to banter back.

“I’ve heard there’s a lot of rich pricks there.”

“What, you afraid they can’t take one more?”

“Ha ha, always a joker. Look, I’m having a graduation party on Saturday. Will you come?”

“Nuh-uh. Working.”

“You?”

“Someone’s gotta keep me in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed,” Jack’s sneering laugh sounds a bit more genuine to Bruce’s ears. “I’ll come over after I’m done. How about that?”

“Okay.” There’s a pause. “Jack?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“I really am…” He doesn’t say it, because he knows Jack doesn’t want him to. “I wish that I could…”

“I know,” Jack says gently and hangs up.

***

Bruce spends the next few days mindlessly acting by rote. He removes his armor piece by piece, assembling it on its stand, not feeling the ache in his body from where the bullets impacted his armor. He grabs rags and cleaning supplies and returns to the Tumbler, begins to methodically clean the girl’s blood out of the passenger side. Alfred calls him half-way through, but Bruce cannot hear the phone ringing past the ringing in his own ears. It doesn’t matter. He doubts the old man has anything to say that Bruce wants to hear.

It takes hours before the last speck of blood is gone. Bruce gathers the bucket and cleaning supplies and returns them to their spot under the industrial sink. He grabs a metal garbage can and goes back for the rags. He scoops up the pile of crimson-soaked terrycloth and discards it. And suddenly, the horror sweeps over him anew—the smell of blood, the tacky feel of it on his hands and in his hair. The numbness abates a little and he can suddenly feel the ache in his chest. He retches into the garbage can, holding back tears.

When the dry-heaves finally subside, he is filled with renewed purpose. He dismantles the armor, stuffing it into the garbage can with the blood-soaked rags. His hands are shaking, but he doesn’t stop, carefully disassembling each piece of Kevlar before tossing it into the trash. When he’s finished, he strips the spare suit of weapons and places it in the trash with the other one.

He looks around his stark, white haven, eyes stinging. Right—the Tumbler is next. It takes hours to strip the vehicle of weapons, guidance system, anything that can be used against the GCPD. He tears out the computer’s circuit boards with his bare hands, cutting himself on the metal and leaving smudges of blood on the electronics. The blood hardens as he works, flaking off of his hands and onto the cold metal floor. He ignores it. He pounds away at his toys, destroying everything that he can. He keeps his mind dulled out. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat. He ignores Alfred’s calls. He methodically tears apart every link he has to Batman.

On the third day, his body gives in to exhaustion and he passes out.

When he wakes up, Joker is there.

“You know,” Joker drawls, smoothing Bruce’s hair back from his forehead. “You are not an easy man to find.”

Bruce stares at him, mind peculiarly calm. He cannot find it in himself to be surprised or upset that Joker has discovered his hideaway. He feels nothing at all.

Joker’s hands continue their petting as Bruce watches him, his brain cataloguing his actions automatically. Joker has traded in the threadbare drawstring pants and t-shirt of the average Arkham inmate for his trademark suit, along with waistcoat and tie. Brown leather shoes and soft suede gloves complete the outfit. There is a black wooden walking stick lying near his bent knee. His hair has overgrown the buzz cut he was periodically given as a prisoner, blond curls wisping around his bare, makeup-less face. He is more like the boy Bruce remembers than the madman that is his enemy, and it throws Bruce off, makes him unable to react the way he knows he should.

Joker presses a paper cup of water from the sink into his hands.

“Drink this,” he says with an encouraging smile.

Bruce drinks it, still in a daze. The water feels wonderful in his dry throat, and he gulps it down, handing the empty cup back. Joker takes it and disappears for a moment, returns with another cup of water and a granola bar. Bruce eats, watching the other man, who has settled in front of him, that slight smile still on his face. It feels like a dream—Bruce’s thoughts float through his head, barely ruffling the surface of his conscious mind. Instead, his head is steeped in a warm stupor. He finishes the food, setting the cup and the wrapper beside him and then turns to the clown.

Joker ruffles his hair fondly. “That’s my boy.”

He stands, leaning on his walking stick as he draws himself up. He puts his weight on his right leg and leans down to Bruce. Bruce takes his proffered hand and lets Joker draw him to his feet. His knee is stiff from so long in one position and he nearly collapses when it won’t take his weight. He claws at the wall for purchase, Joker’s hand under his elbow propping him up as he stretches the stiffness out. The pain breaks through some of his numbness, but it still feels far away and dream-like. Eventually, he is able to stand on his own and he follows Joker outside.

There is a car waiting, stolen no doubt, but Bruce doesn’t question it. He climbs into the passenger seat and watches as Joker fumbles with the keys and turns the engine over. The reality of the situation has still not set in fully. He is sitting in a car with Joker; he had woken to find him in his hideaway; he is even now being driven to some unknown place. Yet nothing stirs in his mind, no hint of anger or fear. Perhaps he has a death wish. Or perhaps he just doesn’t care anymore.

It takes a few minutes for Bruce to realize that they are heading for Wayne Manor, but Joker turns off before they get to the main entrance, taking the lower road towards the boathouse. Bruce hasn’t been there since the manor was rebuilt—hasn’t wanted to deal with the memories of his times there with Jack. Joker rolls the car to a stop and they both get out. Bruce’s eyes fix on the dock, charred and ramshackle with decay. A surge of exhaustion sweeps over his body. He drags his eyes away and goes inside.

Joker is looking around the dim room, his tongue darting out to lick at his scars. “The old one was better,” he observes.

Bruce approaches him, that strange lassitude still settling into his limbs. “The roof leaked.”

“Eh, it had charm,” Joker demurs. “Some people like that sort of thing.” Bruce shuts his eyes, letting familiar laughter wash over him. He usually finds it irritating, but now it is soothing.

“And, some people look like they’re about the fall over,” Joker observes. Bruce slits his eyes back open and smiles faintly at him.

Joker’s hands push Bruce towards the couch, urging him to lie down and then straddling Bruce’s torso and fitting his chest against Bruce’s. He cups Bruce’s face in both of his hands, rubbing his knuckles on the stubble around Bruce’s jawline. The warmth of his hands is sinking into Bruce’s body, making it hard to focus.

“You don’t think this is real,” he says, gaze oddly affectionate.

Bruce shakes his head.

“Oh Brucie, Brucie, Brucie. You still have me, you know. You never didn’t have me. Your having of me was and is a permanent affair.”

Joker bends and places a tender kiss on Bruce’s forehead. His arms tighten around Bruce. Bruce closes his eyes and turns his face into Joker’s neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Joker hums and pulls Bruce closer, fitting their bodies together on the narrow couch. Bruce’s mind finally resigns the last vestiges of awareness and he falls asleep in the madman’s arms.

***

The party is horrible. Bruce makes his way through the crowd of his father’s friends, smiling his plastic smile as they press envelopes of cash into his hands. He makes his way over to Rachel, beautiful in a deep red dress.

“Bruce, congratulations!” She says and kisses his cheek.

“You, too. I heard about the internship at the district attorney’s office.”

Rachel smiles at him and they clink glasses in a comradely gesture. They sip champagne until the silence turns awkward. “I’m sorry,” Rachel says. “I know we haven’t seen a lot of each other in the past few months. I hope you don’t think I’ve been avoiding you.”

“No,” Bruce says, waving away her apology. “It’s okay. I know you’ve been busy with school.”

“Yeah,” she says, her warm eyes meeting his. “But it’s no excuse.” Her soft hand closes around his arm. “I miss you,” she says softly.

Bruce feels his chest tighten. “I miss you, too,” he tells her.

The crowd eventually thins down to stragglers. Rachel and her date leave, and Bruce makes the rounds again, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Alfred stays to escort the last of the guests outside, but Bruce has had enough. He goes to his room and strips off his jacket and tie and throws them into his chair before sitting on the bed to untie his shoes.

“You’ve gotten better at that,” Jack’s voice purrs from the balcony. Bruce does not startle.

“Taking off my clothes?” Bruce asks, toeing off his stiff leather shoes with a groan.

“Well, that too,” Jack tells him. He leans against the frame of the glass door, watching Bruce unfasten his cufflinks. “But I meant the party. Being Bruce Wayne.”

Bruce sets the cufflinks on the dresser top, eyebrows furrowing. “But I am Bruce Wayne.”

“No, you’re not.”

Jack lolls back against the glass, tendrils of hair sticking to the rain-soaked pane. The earthy smell of wet grass drifts in on the cool night breeze. Moonlight illuminates Jack’s face, his eyes following Bruce’s movements with something close to menace in his gaze.

“The girls are gonna love it,” he drawls. “Or boys.”

“Girls,” Bruce says. “I’m not—I mean, you’re the only man I’ve…”

He trails off, trying to catch Jack’s eye. Everything here is wrong, Jack’s stillness and the tone of voice. Bruce desperately wants to walk over to Jack and wrap his arms around him, to bury his face in Jack’s neck and never let go. But the look in Jack’s eyes forbids him for even taking a step in his direction.

“Well, there’s that,” Jack says. He finally looks at Bruce, his smile wide and strained. “Do it for me, then. I want to see what it looks like.”

“Do what for you?”

“Play Bruce Wayne.” He moves towards Bruce slowly, his shoulders hunched, his entire body leaning towards Bruce like a stalking predator.

“No. I don’t want—“

“It’s what I want. And I deserve to get what I want, don’t I?”

And Bruce knows it’s wrong, and that it will hurt both of them in the end. But he also knows that he is the one leaving, and he owns it to Jack to try to make it right. So, he slides on his Bruce Wayne mask. He slouches a bit, leaning forward casually, his face set in a rakish grin. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it, and pushes up his sleeves. He regards Jack, cocking an eyebrow at him and smiling slowly.

“Hey beautiful,” he says, his voice smooth, playful.

He wants Jack to smile back, to crack a joke at the ridiculousness of his playboy billionaire persona. But Jack plays along. He casts his eyes down demurely, brushes his blond hair back in a coy gesture, and touches Bruce’s arm.

It’s like a twisted game of chicken. Bruce presses in, using every stupid, outrageously flattering line he knows, smirking and flirtatious. And Jack responds, playing the part of the innocent young girl to perfection. Bruce hates it; hates everything about the insipid, shy way that Jack kisses him, hates how Jack’s hands modestly resting on Bruce’s waist rather than clawing their way inside his clothes. Bruce presses him back into the dresser, using his greater bulk to his advantage. He pulls Jack’s shirt from his pants and snakes his hand inside to caress the small of his back. Jack squeaks--a sound he would never, ever make--and arches timidly against him. His hands smooth up Bruce’s back lightly and Bruce pulls away, disgusted.

Jack’s face is still set in a demure smile, and something inside Bruce snaps at the sight. He grabs handfuls of Jack’s shirt and spins them, body-checking Jack into the wall. Jack’s head bounces against the plaster and Bruce seizes him, bounces him against the wall again. The lethargy begins to clear from Jack’s eyes and Bruce leans in, triumphantly seizing Jack’s mouth in a kiss. He bites at Jack’s lower lip, tongue running over Jack’s scars before plundering his mouth again. Bruce feels like all his prayers have been answered when Jack’s tongue moves against his.

Their teeth clash in another fierce kiss and Bruce bites down, tasting blood. Jack’s hands fist in his hair, his tongue pushing against Bruce’s. Bruce’s head fills with white noise, every nerve ending buzzing as he claws at Jack’s shirt. Buttons tear away and the shirt is pushed frantically down Jack’s arms. Jack gasps as Bruce’s mouth descends to bite down his throat. He leans his head back with a groan, digging his nails into the back of Bruce’s neck as he bites and sucks, leaving marks on the pale flesh.

Bruce pulls away, pawing at the front of Jack’s pants until he’s able to push them down. He roughly turns Jack around, pushing his face into the wall. His hands on Jack’s hips bend him until his ass is in the air. He keeps one hand there, riffling feverishly through his dresser drawer with the other. He finds what he is looking for and pops the cap one-handed, spreading lube on his fingers. Bruce is nearly trembling with need, and he cannot slow himself, cannot even find the resolve to do so. He spreads Jack’s asscheeks and slides his slick fingers against his entrance. Jack whimpers and arches against Bruce’s questing hand. Bruce does not hesitate; he pushes two fingers roughly inside, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction when Jack groans, his forehead hitting the wall in front of him as he rocks his hips back, impaling himself on Bruce’s fingers.

Bruce fingers him roughly, and Jack arches against his hand like a wanton whore. Bruce’s blood is burning as he bites the flesh of Jack’s back, lapping up sweat. He wants to mark this man, to leave scars on him that will never fade. His senses are buzzing in his head, desire cresting over him, and he bites down savagely, breaking skin. Jack screams, but he pushes back against him, shifting closer to Bruce’s vicious mouth.

“Yes, you fucking beautiful thing,” he slurs. “Do it!”

Bruce bites down harder. Blood wells around his mouth and he sucks, grinding his teeth into the flesh, head spinning. Jack screams again, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. Giggles pour out of his wide-open mouth and Bruce pulls back, lips wet.

His fingers are moving somewhat smoothly inside Jack’s ass and he pulls them out, slicking up his own cock and pushing roughly into Jack’s tight heat. Jack’s knees buckle and his head tips back lewdly, a load moan escaping his throat. Bruce grabs a fistful of blond hair and fastens his lips to Jack’s neck, sucking and tearing with his teeth, holding Jack’s hip in an iron grip as he fucks into him with brutal purpose. Anger is swirling in Bruce’s chest and all he wants to do is push every bit of his rage into Jack.

And Jack lets him. He giggles and moans and shakes. He whines and pounds on the wall and pushes back into Bruce. He takes everything that Bruce is giving him and he urges Bruce on.

Bruce can feel his orgasm barreling down on him, and he pushes Jack forward into the wall, gripping his hip with bruising force, taking Jack’s wet cock into his other hand and beating him off in time to his wild thrusts. Jack hisses and clenches, coming almost immediately. Bruce isn’t far behind, pistoning his hips into Jack’s body a few more times before he shudders through his own orgasm.

He pulls out, trying to be gentle, and lets them both sink to the floor. He lays his head on Jack’s bloody back, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. He screws his eyes shut, suddenly ashamed of himself.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jack croons, shifting around to put his arms around Bruce, pulling him in tightly. Bruce lays his head on the battered skin of Jack’s shoulder and lets himself be held. The weight in his chest makes it hard to drag in breath. His anger has burned itself to ash inside of him, leaving only crushing grief behind. Jack’s fingers card through his hair, and Bruce gives in to the comfort for a moment before pulling away.

He urges Jack to his feet and into the bathroom. He runs the water in the shower, pulls Jack inside the tiled partition with him and tenderly washes him, rinsing blood and semen from Jack’s bruised flesh. Bruce’s cheeks burn with shame when he realizes that some of the bite marks will scar. He shuts off the water, pats Jack dry, then makes him sit on the toilet lid as he disinfects and dresses each wound. Silence stretches between them, ringing and empty.

When he is finished, Bruce retrieves Jack’s clothes. The shirt is a lost cause and so he gives Jack one of his own, pulling it over Jack’s shoulders and buttoning it up. He forces his fingers not to linger. Jack tilts his head, trying to meet Bruce’s eyes but Bruce steps back, letting his hands fall away. He keeps his eyes resolutely lowered.

He is afraid of what he might do if he looks at Jack right now.

Bruce goes over to his desk and writes something down on his personalized stationary. He hands the note to Jack. Jack doesn’t look at it, doesn’t take his eyes off of Bruce’s distressed face, forcing Bruce to explain. “It’s my cell phone number. If you ever need it.”

Jack tucks the piece of paper into his pocket. Bruce does not watch him leave.

Jack never calls.

***

Bright colors, lights, press of people. Pushing past the crowd, fear clogging his throat, hitting the cool night air and pulling in deep calming breaths. A broad hand on his back, and a horrible sense of foreboding as a man steps out of the shadows, something gleaming in his hand.

The nightmare unspools behind Bruce’s eyes, familiar horror catching in his chest as he lunges forward, mouth open in a silent scream. Each step feels like walking in quicksand, breath burning in his lungs and he stretches forward, reaching, reaching… Pop. Poppoppop. The retort of the gun is deafening. Bruce watches his parents crumple. His knees give way, shock and sorrow bearing him down. He reaches out, touching the still, cold forms and then the figures morph and it is Rachel and Jenny lying in front of him, their faces ghastly white, the eyes of the little girl open to stare accusingly up into his. He couldn’t save them. He couldn’t save any of them--

He starts awake, covered in sweat.

And starts again at the unmistakable sound of a revolver’s cylinder flicking into place. Bruce jerks around to see Joker sitting in the chair opposite him, coolly flipping the cylinder open again. It hits the frame and he spins it with a whir, looking down the site before flicking it back into place. He thumbs the hammer back with an audible ‘click’ and points the gun at Bruce.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he chirps, his voice full of cheerful menace.

He’s got his facepaint back on. White greasepaint gleams in the dim light, the garish red slash of his smile twisting. Bruce very carefully turns fully toward him, setting both of his feet on the floor.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about that scene back in your Bathole,” Joker says conversationally. “All those broken toys and stuff.” He gestures widely with the gun in his hand. “You’ve had people die on you before. You’ve even taken the blame for their deaths before. So, I’ve been thinking, what’s so different about this time?” He pauses.
“And I’m thinking it’s that.” Joker extends his arm, pointing the gun at Bruce’s right knee.

Bruce’s eyes slit fractionally, jaw tightening. It’s all the confirmation Joker needs. He sets the gun down on the end table and stands, leaning heavily on his right leg. His gaze is a threat that heats every part of Bruce’s body at once. Bruce stands as well. They both pause, the length of the room between them, and the moment stretches—the air humming with anticipation. Their eyes lock. Joker bares his teeth in a feral smile.

They both spring forward at once. They go down in a tangle of limbs, rolling as Joker’s chattering laughter swells up. Joker’s fists connect with his torso in a rain of frantic blows. Bruce’s head swims. It feels like coming home. Bruce twists underneath him, bridging up for a counterattack. Skin and bone connect under his fists with a cracking sound. Joker tips his head back, giggling, blood dripping from his open mouth. Bruce raises his fist again, his other hand grasping the lapel of Joker’s purple jacket. He stuffs his fist into Joker’s face, punches and hits and grinds up into him mindless to anything but tearing the madman apart.

Joker’s hands seize Bruce’s wrists. He uses his body weight to push Bruce’s arms to the floor, pinning him. “Now now, that is enough of our usual foreplay,” he drawls.

Joker leans forward, placing a soft kiss on Bruce’s lips. He pulls back, grip as tight as iron on Bruce’s wrists, and then bends again and pushes his tongue into Bruce’s mouth.

Bruce’s head swims—the endorphins from the fight and the banked desire filling his veins with blood-soaked sand. Joker’s hips move coyly, grinding into the one’s beneath him. Bruce cannot help the way he gasps into Joker’s mouth, the awareness of his erection, swollen and pressed against Joker’s own, blotting out his reason for a moment.

Joker uses the moment to shift away, releasing Bruce’s wrists and sits up. Bruce attempts to follow but is pushed back down by strong hands. The point of a knife keeps him down, Joker’s blade pressing into the soft skin of his throat. Joker’s other hand picks at the front of Bruce’s shirt, parting the fabric. His nails prick Bruce’s skin as he trails them down Bruce’s chest and pops open the button on his fly. He shifts his weight off Bruce, the pressure of the knife never easing, and uses his other hand to take off Bruce’s pants and boxers.

When Bruce is naked, Joker’s warm hands slide under Bruce, urging him to turn over. Bruce does, brain in a vertigo. Joker leans close to whisper in his ear, “Now, be a good bat and don’t move.”

He pats Bruce’s cheek affectionately and rolls off of Bruce.

There is the sound of undressing. Bruce stays where he is. The pressure in his head is building. His body feels heavy and slow. Guilt and pain are dead weights in his chest, but it’s okay. It’s okay. He is safe and he is being cared for. The thought that it is Joker who is providing this respite only proves to Bruce how wrong he is.

Batman is over. It’s all over.

There is a slight rustling sound behind him. That is all the warning he has before Joker’s walking stick cracks smartly against his bare shoulders. Bruce hisses in pain and shock, automatically lifting himself on his arms, but Joker’s foot plants between his shoulder blades, pushing him back down.

“No,” he says, drawing the vowel out chidingly. “It’s time for you to take your medicine.”

Understanding comes in a rush and his mouth goes dry. Joker removes his foot and Bruce shifts, pulling his arms into his body, squaring up his back. He hears Joker’s breathy chuckle.

“Yeah, you get it,” he says, trailing a hand teasingly down Bruce’s spine.

And then the walking stick crashes down again, obliterating every thought from Bruce’s mind. Bruce gasps with the first few blows—he cannot believe how much it hurts. Each blow feels like fire bursting under his skin. Joker is not holding back at all, beating him with all the strength of his whipcord body behind him, the heavy wooden stick raining blows over the skin of his back, his ass, his thighs.

Bruce squirms and cries out, tears prinking behind his eyelids. Joker chose not to tie him up, Bruce realizes. He wants Bruce to be able to move, to respond, to submit himself to this. To take his punishment.

It goes on and on, the pain searing him, scorching into every cell until there is no escaping it. He welcomes the pain, feeling with each strike the pressure around his heart easing. Dopamine dumps into his veins, his senses shutting out one by one until all that exists is the feeling of the blows lavishing his body. Bruce howls and sobs and he takes it. He takes everything that Joker is giving him, feeling cleansed with each stroke.

After an endless time, the blows abate. Bruce hears the walking stick clatter to the carpet, and Joker’s low grunt as he kneels beside Bruce’s battered body. His fingers stroke through Bruce’s hair, cupping his flushed, upturned cheek. Bruce feels a warm tongue lapping up his tears and he turns, exposing his entire face to Joker’s questing tongue. The licks give way to lingering kisses. Joker sucks at his lips, mouth clinging and Bruce kisses back, desperate and hungry. His arms tingle from where they have been pinned to his chest, but he raises them the moment he regains feeling, pulling Joker closer. The jagged landscape of that ruined mouth is so familiar. Joker moans into the kiss and Bruce pulls back.

A crest of indefinable emotion rises in his chest as he gazes into Joker’s face.

“It’s done,” Joker says, cradling him. “You’re square now, you understand?”

Bruce nods. Yes, he’s square. The guilt that has been driving him for days has finally eased. Bruce hasn’t felt this human in years.

He feels himself smiling at Joker, and Joker smiles back and cups Bruce’s face in his hands again. He kisses Bruce unhurriedly, hands lingering in Bruce’s hair, trailing teasingly down his chest to circle over his nipples. He pulls Bruce over him, and Bruce presses their hips together, Joker’s cock wet against his own. It is all so familiar—the way the man beneath him moves, the way his fingers twist inside Bruce, the way their bodies fit together. Bruce takes him inside, rides him as Joker’s nails graze the welts on his back, making him moan and shiver. Joker’s hand strokes Bruce’s cock with perfect pressure, the tempo slow and then faster as Bruce’s movements become more frantic. It is all so familiar, and so sweet.

Bruce cries out when he comes, clutching the man beneath him close. “Jack,” he murmurs into blonde curls and the man beneath him shudders and moans and does not deny it.

***

”Bruce, I don’t suppose there is any way I can convince you not to come?” Rachel’s head tips down, dark hair spilling over her shoulder.

The manor’s driveway looks the same as it’s looked since Bruce can remember. He recalls running across the crisp gravel after Rachel, sifting for arrowheads in the garden. He remembers cutting across the lawn and jogging up the drive after a long, languorous day of swimming with Jack. He remembers the way the rain made the driveway gleam when he left here two years ago. These memories filter through his mind, but they do not stir his resolve.

The gun in his pocket is a steady weight. He feels calm and ready.

“Someone at this proceeding should stand for my parents.”

Rachel winces and argues with him, but Bruce knows it all. Knows that Joe Chill made a bargain with the DA. Knows that his testimony will help put Falcone behind bars. Knows that Chill will never live to give that testimony.

They drive to the courthouse in silence.

The parole hearing is a nightmare. Too many reporters, too much false sympathy. Bruce wishes for the millionth time that Jack was here. Bruce had tried to find him, to say goodbye. He found the apartment empty, no forwarding address, no way to contact him. Maybe it’s better this way. He knows that Jack will understand what he has to do.

Bruce follows Chill out of the courtroom, retrieving the gun he had stashed under Rachel’s car. Reporters are clogging the exits, circling for a story. One recognizes him and clears a path between him and Chill, eager for a confrontation. Bruce’s heartbeat quickens, his breath coming in short gasps. He grasps the loaded gun tightly. His vision telescopes down to a pinpoint, every cell in his body straining toward his revenge.

He does not even see the blonde step into his path until it is too late.

“Hey Chill,” she says. “Falcone says hi!” She thrusts a gun at Chill’s chest and fires. Chill falls. Reporters scream and scramble back as police scramble forward. In the melee, the blonde woman turns and Bruce feels a flash of recognition. And then she’s gone, police pursuing on foot, and Rachel is pulling him away.

They get into the car. Bruce is numb. “All these years I’ve wanted to kill him,” he says lowly, “And now he’s gone. Now I can’t.”

“You don’t mean that,” Rachel says, and it strikes Bruce then how little she truly understands him.

“I do,” he argues grimly. “Chill killed my parents. They deserve justice.”

“You’re not talking about justice,” she argues. “You’re talking about revenge!”

“They’re the same,” he tells her. She looks at him, appalled, and he can feel her slipping away from him. “Rachel, your system of justice is broken. Don’t you see that?” He is desperate to make her understand, to still have one person who understands.

“Don’t you tell me that! I’m trying every day to fix the system, while you use your grief as an excuse to do nothing!” She stops the car, gesturing out the window. “Look at this city, Bruce. Look! It’s rotting from the inside, and you know why? Because men like Falcone run this city. Joe Chill wasn’t the disease; he’s just a symptom. No one wants to deal with the real problem. Falcone may not have killed your parents, but he has destroyed everything they stood for.”

Rachel rolls the car into the street and gestures at the club opposite them. “Everyone knows where to find Falcone, but no one will touch him. They are either too scared or they’re working for him. Like your friend Jack.”

Bruce starts. “How do you—“

“Everyone knows it, Bruce. He’s too low-level for my office to go after him, and I’ve tried to keep it that way for your sake, but the path he’s on…” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry Bruce, but he’s not a good man.”

And Bruce could almost laugh. “You think I am?” He pulls the gun from his sleeve. “I was going to kill Chill myself.”

Rachel stares at him in shocked silence for a moment. Her hand lashes out then, slapping him once—twice—tears flowing down her face. She points at the gun in his hand.

“Your father would be so ashamed,” she says. The words cut him to the quick, because they are true. His father hated violence. He built his legacy on creating peace. But building peace is impossible in a world like this one. There is no fairness in this world, Bruce tells himself. All his money, all his fame and charm is useless in the face of such injustice. Bruce opens the door and stumbles out onto the pavement. Rachel guns the car, leaving him behind.

His mind goes back to the blonde reporter, and that flash of recognition, and he looks down at the gun in his hand. He remembers the gun in Chill’s hand wavering as he holds it on Bruce’s parents, his eyes wide with fright and greed. And he realizes that Rachel is right. Chill was never the problem.

He turns toward the club. The bouncers try to stop him, but a wad of cash gains him entrance. Falcone is there, seating amongst the elite like a spider in a web. Bruce’s eyes scan over him, taking in the details, but he is not here for him. He waits, not knowing how he knows but he does know. And sure enough, he hears that familiar laugh braying out. He leaves the lobby, skirting the tables and following the sound into the kitchen. Jack is leaning against the back wall. He’s ditched the blonde wig, but is still wearing a grey skirt and women’s makeup. The disguise would never hold up to close scrutiny, but Bruce supposes he didn’t need a lot of time—just an opportunity.

This is what is happening in Bruce’s conscious mind. But underneath it, his emotions are going haywire—two years of frustrated longing and enraging silence tangling in his chest.

Bruce’s stride doesn’t slow as he makes for the man. Some of the kitchen staff bristle, but Jack holds up a hand to stop them. “It’s fine,” he drawls. “Just an old friend coming to say hello.”

Bruce wants to rip him apart, but he waits until Jack pulls him out the door and into the dark alley.

“I take it you’re here to have a chat about—“

“How could you do that to me?” Bruce interrupts. His fury is a red blot against his vision. He lashes out, his fist connecting with Jack’s cheek. Jack sways, but doesn’t fall. “He was mine!”

“Oh and what were you gonna do, huh? Shoot him in front of a hundred witnesses? Oh that was a great plan! Real swell.”

“Fuck you! You fucking asshole!” Bruce hits him again, and this time Jack stumbles back into the wall, laughing as his head hits the bricks. “You had no right!”

“I had every right, sweetheart,” he giggles. “Both personally and, ah- professionally.”

Bruce pauses, disappointment a crushing weight. “The mob? Jesus, how can you? You hate them.”

“Oh please,” Jack shoots back. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know. What did you think I was doing, Brucie, huh? Selling cars? Not all of us want to flunk out of the entire Ivy League to work in Daddy’s company.”

“Don’t you fucking throw that in my face. I didn’t ask for that, and I don’t want it.”

Jack sneers. “What do you want, then?”

And the devastating truth is, he wants Jack.

But he cannot--cannot--have him like this.

“I want you to leave. I want you out of Gotham.”

Jack laughs in his face. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

“Then I’ll go,” Bruce says and his voice is cold.

“Don’t,” Jack seethes. “Don’t even say that.”

But the decision has already been made. Jack must see it in Bruce’s eyes because he springs forward, pushing Bruce back into the wall, his whole body pinning Bruce to the cold brick. Bruce tries to push him off, but Jack’s grip is inescapable. “You and me—we don’t choose. We get chosen. Do you understand me?”

And Bruce does, of course he does. He can’t help what he feels for Jack, can’t help the sick rush of desire that overtakes him, even now. After everything Jack has done to him, Bruce should despise him. He does despise him. But the simple truth is that it doesn’t matter. He belongs to Jack, as surely as the other man belongs to him. Nothing can change that.

“I hate you,” Bruce whispers, half-wonderingly.

Jack smiles at him. “I hate you too, darling.”

In a flash of insight, Bruce realizes what he must do. The idea has been growing, slowly taking root in his brain for years. There is no fairness in this world, and nothing that he can do about it. He is useless as Bruce Wayne. But perhaps he can choose to become something more.

He smiles back at Jack, leaning in to place a kiss on his forehead.

“I’ll be back,” he tells him.

It is a promise.

***

“I don’t think I can take another Gotham winter,” Joker says. They are still in the boathouse, crowded into the tiny bathroom. Bruce’s wounds have been tenderly cared for and now he sits on the lowered toilet seat, watching as a shirtless Joker takes a wet washcloth to the greasepaint on his face.

“No?”

Bruce’s eyes follow the movements of his hands as Joker swipes the cloth against his cheek, revealing a bit of pink skin. His back is a pale expanse broken by scars, the faded half-circle of a bite mark clearly visible on his right shoulder blade. Bruce watches the muscles moving under Joker’s skin as he works. His mind is calm and untroubled. The skin of his back throbs, but the pain makes him feel solid. Balanced. He feels a smile crawl over his face as Joker grimaces, rubbing futily at the black paint under his eyes.

“Nope,” Joker tells him, turning on the tap and running the rag under it. “I think,” he pauses as he runs the washcloth over his mouth, more and more of his face revealed to Bruce’s gaze. “I think I want to go someplace warm. Maybe Hawaii.”

“That is just an excuse for you to wear a flowered shirt.”

Joker—Jack—snorts. “As if I need an excuse. Tijuana then.”

Bruce shakes his head. “I’ve been there. The food is good but it’s a total shithole.”

Jack cants his head, regarding him. “Have you been to Jamaica?” It is couched as an innocuous question, but Bruce can clearly hear the other question beneath it.

Bruce thinks for a moment. “I’d like to.”

A smile twists across Jack’s face. “Good,” he says. He reaches out and places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing a bit before going back to lean over the sink, continuing to unmask himself. He catches Bruce’s eyes in the mirror. “That’s good.”

***

Bruce rarely thinks about Jack in the years that he is away from Gotham. He is too busy surviving, learning, honing his skills into a weapon that can be wielded against injustice.

Seven years later, Jim Gordon hands Batman a playing card, encased in plastic.

“Got a taste for theatrics. Like you…”he says.

Bruce feels his heart constrict, fear and hope and longing planting claws in his chest.

“I’ll look in to it,” he says, and disappears into the night.

***

Bruce is thirty-five years old when he meets Jack again.

They have never been out of each other’s orbits, not really. But now, they are beginning to fit their lives around each other.

It is slow going. They have years to make up for. And there are still sore spots—wounds that never healed quite right. They try to talk and to understand each other and, when that fails, they go at each other with fists and teeth until the truth pours out.

It works.

Because the thing is…something is wrong with Bruce.

But it’s nothing that they can’t make right together.

***

~Fin.

Break My Fall 3/4

2013-03-12T00:14:50Z

Part One

Part Two

Bruce tosses a pack of cards down on the table between them.

“If you want me to deal, you’re gonna have to help me with the cuffs,” Joker tells him.

“Bullshit.”

Joker flashes him a grin. He grabs his left thumb in his right hand, popping it out of joint with a small grunt. He’s got the left cuff off in a matter of seconds, and makes short work of the other. “Ta-da!” he preens, waving his unshackled hands, dislocated thumbs flopping.

Bruce rolls his eyes, scoops up the pack of cards and starts shuffling. He stretches his sore knee out under the table where Joker cannot see. The ache is constant now, despite the cortisone shots and over-the-counter analgesics. He won’t take anything stronger; he can’t afford to be doped up. He can handle the pain.

“Deal,” he says, slapping the cards down in front of Joker.

Joker pushes his thumbs back into the joints and deals out the cards, a variation of poker he taught Bruce years ago. They play in silence, watching the cards and each other’s faces. It’s almost soothing, the rhythm of the game reminding Bruce of long evenings and quiet conversations. He feels something bittersweet rise in his chest.

Joker must be thinking of the same thing, because he says, “Do you remember the first time you hit me?”

“The interrogation room,” Bruce says evenly.

“No,” Joker is not deterred. “The first time. Tell me how it felt,” Joker demands, and Bruce feels sick. He does not want to talk about that. He does not want the howling pain his memories of Jack bring him.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Come on. Come on, come on, come on. Tell me,” he wheedles, eyes over-bright. Bruce hates him, with a comprehensiveness that is stunning. Rage rises up, blotting out the hurt. It calms Bruce with its tight familiarity.
“You tell me,” he lashes back.

Joker’s scars tuck up into the corners of his cheeks. “Like falling in love,” he says grandiosely. “You always knew how to make me swoon.”

He moves, faster than Bruce would have expected. It is only Bruce’s finely-honed instincts that make him turn his head away at the last second, the punch glancing off his cheek instead of shattering his nose. He plunges forward to tackle Joker, overturning the table with a crash. They both go down, punching and gouging at each other. White noise fills Bruce’s head, the buzz of endorphins coursing through his veins. His hands wrap around Joker’s neck and squeeze. Joker is still gasping out giggles. His long fingers circle Bruce’s wrists, urging him to squeeze harder. He arches between Bruce’s spread thighs, pressing closer, and Bruce leans over him, his eyes staring into the bright, mad eyes below him.

“Come on,” Joker wheezes. “Do it!”

Bruce lets go, standing abruptly. “No.”

“Tease!”

Bruce raps three times on the door to be let out.

“You can’t deny it, Brucie baby,” Joker gasps, his voice hoarse and raw. He levers himself up, his splayed legs and thin cotton pants doing nothing to hide the outline of his erection. “You can’t explain it; you can’t make it fit.”

“I’m not coming back here,” Bruce tells him. His knee is throbbing in time to his heartbeat. It will be difficult to walk out of here without giving some sign, but he’s become an expert at masking his pain.

“If you don’t, I’ll come to you.” Joker chuckles darkly.

The lock slides back and Bruce wrenches the door open.

***

Bruce wakes on Thanksgiving morning to a note taped to the balcony door. He peels it off the glass, cursing the snow that had blurred the sloppy lines of the address that Jack had scrawled across the back of a takeout menu.

A half-hour later, Bruce pulls into the abandoned lot next to a metal-sided warehouse. The side door is unlocked and Bruce slides inside, snow swirling around his boots as he pushes the door closed against the wind.

“Jesus,” he huffs, chaffing his hands and looking around. He is standing in a short hallway that opens into a large storage area. Bruce goes to the entry and looks around. The storage area is mostly empty, metal racks bare, stacks of broken pallets leaning haphazardly against the back wall. Fluorescents buzz overhead and there is a low tone like a plucked harp string, sounding over and over again, and then a nasal voice muttering to itself.

Bruce feels a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He follows the sounds around a half-overturned stack of wooden crates to find Jack, half buried in the top of a battered upright piano. Jack grunts and there is a loud, melodious thunk.

“Got it,” Jack crows. He emerges from the bowels of the piano and spies Bruce watching him. “Hey there sleepyhead, need your muscles.”

“For what?” At Jack’s shifty look Bruce groans. “You want me to move this?” He waves his hand at the piano.

“Only a few blocks.” Jack rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. “I’ve silenced the hammers so we won’t damage the strings.”

“I hate you,” Bruce tells him, but spends the afternoon laboriously rolling the piano through the snow to a squalid apartment building three blocks away. They somehow manage to get it up a narrow staircase without killing themselves. Jack unlocks the door and they roll it inside, discarding their coats and collapsing against the wall, panting with exertion.

I mean it,” Bruce gasps. “Hatred.”

Jack laughs in his face, but he levers himself up and moves into the tiny kitchen, pulling down a glass. He returns, handing Bruce a glass of water from the tap. Bruce drinks it as he looks around. The apartment is tiny, hardly larger than Bruce’s bedroom at the manor, with a battered door at one end that presumably leads to an equally cramped bathroom. A narrow bed sits in one corner, an overturned milk crate serving as a nightstand. Beside it is a sloping bookshelf, crammed with battered paperbacks. There is a stack of cardboard boxes next to the bookshelf, the top one opened to reveal an old alarm clock, a coil of copper wire, the handle of a hammer and other odds-and-ends. The boxes lean against a tiled kitchen island, the top cluttered with papers, newspapers, a spilled stack of VHS tapes and an overflowing ashtray. The kitchen area is mostly clean, if a bit squalid. On the other wall is an antique-looking dresser, one drawer open to reveal a jumble of bright-colored clothes. There is a large, oak-framed mirror on top, covered in taped photographs, ripped out pages of magazines, post cards from various places. There’s even a ticket stub from the Gotham Opera, tucked against a faded Savemart receipt.

Jack has rolled the piano to the foot of the bed and is standing on the mattress, his head and shoulders inside the back of the instrument. He does something that makes the piano clunk out that low tone again, and then bounces off the bed, dragging a beat-up wooden chair over and planting himself, depressing the pedals experimentally.

Jack takes a breath and begins to play something that Bruce dimly remembers from his four years of violin lessons. The piano is badly out of tune, and Jack grimaces at the sound, but he played the piece through anyway, his long, pale fingers dancing across the keys. He plays with easy mastery, the melody flowing effortlessly from his hands as he plays from memory. Jack’s shoulders rise and fall; Bruce can see his shoulder blades working through his threadbare t-shirt, his head bent to reveal the nape of his neck. His eyelids flutter closed and he strokes the keys tenderly.

Bruce watches him, his chest aching with yearning.

Jack’s eyes snap open and catch Bruce standing there stupidly, openly staring. Bruce tries to wipe the look off his face, but he isn’t sure he is entirely successful. Jack regards him for a moment, the somber melody still lingering in the air, and then he launches into the song again, playing it double-time. He waggles his eyebrows and adds a ragtime rhythm with his left hand. The mood breaks, and Bruce drift over to settle himself onto the bed, leaning against the wall and pulling a book out of his pocket. Jack keeps playing, but Bruce is no longer listening. His eyes are locked unseeingly on the page in front of him, his mind in a riot.

He’d known. Some part of Bruce has always known that he wanted Jack. But he can’t; he can’t. Jack is his closest friend and he cannot lose him. And he will, Bruce knows he will. Jack has accepted so much about him already. But this is too much It’s too much and Jack will leave, and—

The bedsprings creak as Jack settled beside him. He snatches the book from Bruce’s hand, glancing at the page. “’Some love too little, some too long; some sell and others buy. For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die,’” he reads out and then snorts and tosses the book to the foot of the bed. “Oscar Wilde. How apropos.”

He peers into Bruce’s face. Bruce smiles weakly, avoiding his eyes. Jack lets out a little huff and climbs into Bruce’s lap, wrapping his arms around Bruce and burying his face into Bruce’s neck. Bruce’s body burns everywhere Jack touches, warmth uncurling from the base of his spine. Jack’s breath ghosts against Bruce’s skin, causing it to prickle. Bruce sits rigid, petrified.

“Silly,” Jack murmurs, his lips brushing Bruce’s neck.

And then Jack draws back and kisses him.

His lips are soft and warm, slightly chapped. He slants his mouth over Bruce’s, tasting him slowly and languidly. The hand in his hair holds Bruce in place as Jack’s tongue traces the seam of his lips, licking in short strokes that make Bruce gasp, his own lips parting in invitation. Jack does not hesitate, pressing in closer, winding his tongue around Bruce’s. Bruce closes his eyes, head swimming as he kisses back.
Jack makes a noise into Bruce’s mouth and sneaks a hand under Bruce’s shirt to stroke his skin. Bruce shivers, pulls him closer. He cannot believe this is happening. He has wanted it for so long, wanted to lick the inside of that scarred mouth and feel the knots of flesh under his tongue for so long, that he can hardly believe that he is actually doing it. But the sense of unreality slowly fades as their kisses grow more heated. It is happening. Jack is kissing him, and touching him, and he is not disgusted or angry. He wants this.

Bruce breaks from the kiss, gasping hard. His fingers are clawing at the front of Jack’s t-shirt, and he pushes the fabric up, reaching inside to trace his fingers across Jack’s ribs. Jack gasps, tipping his head back and Bruce licks a long stripe up his neck, returning to suck on the skin beneath his chin. Jack shifts impossibly closer, the friction between their bodies making Bruce shiver and moan.

He rocks his hips experimentally up into Jack’s, and Jack hisses a broken, “Yes.”

Bruce goes a little crazy after that. He licks into that scarred mouth again, rocking into Jack’s hips, nearly frantic with need. Jack shifts back and Bruce groans, clutching him close, not wanting to lose an inch of this contact. Jack twists out of his grip, getting a hand in between them. His fingers slide against the erection trapped in Bruce’s pants and Bruce lets out a gasp, his head thumping back against the wall. Jack hums in approval, biting down at the exposed juncture between Bruce’s neck and shoulder.

“Jack,” Bruce gasps, and Jack bites down harder, grinding Bruce’s flesh in between his teeth as his other hand slides over Bruce’s clothed cock. Bruce comes in hot pulses, his mind blanking out.

When he comes back to himself, Jack is smiling down at him, looking equal parts pleased and lustful. Bruce surges up, turning them over, determined to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off Jack’s face. His hands go to the front of Jack’s pants, undoing the fly and pulling baggy jeans and underwear down. He’s never done any of this before, but Bruce doesn’t let that stop him. He takes Jack’s leaking cock in his hand, setting a brutal rhythm. Jack arches beneath him, pushing his flesh eagerly into Bruce’s tight hand. It is over very quickly; Jack’s entire body shakes as he comes, his mouth open in a silent scream, spurting over Bruce’s hand.

They stay like that for a few seconds, panting and staring at each other in shocked delight. And then Jack pulls Bruce into a languid kiss, pushing him down onto the bed beside him. He curls into Bruce, not bothering to do up his fly. They lie motionless for a long time, the distant ticking of a clock and the buzz of traffic outside lulling Bruce. Bruce feels Jack press a kiss to his throat and then Bruce slides into sleep.

***

“Gordon.” The man doesn’t startle, but his eyebrows quirk up at Batman’s sudden appearance.

“Thank you for coming,” he says. It is the first time since Harvey Dent’s death that he’s called on the untraceable cell phone that Batman had provided. Which means that whatever this is, it is something only Batman can do. A frisson of bright anticipation trickles down Batman’s spine.

“You know that Vincent Maroni’s been rebuilding his father’s empire, right?”

“I’ve heard,” Batman answers. He’d made a point to find out, after Joker had mentioned it. As far as he can tell, Joker does not have a hand in any of it. That doesn’t mean he’s not involved somehow, though. “Maroni’s got most his father’s old lieutenants on his payroll,” Batman explains. “The Eight-sixers are in disarray with Gambol gone, so he’s taken over their territory. The Russians are in bed with him. Which means that he’s got complete control of guns and drugs in the city.”

“Correct.” Gordon doesn’t sound surprised that Batman knows this, despite the GCPD’s efforts to keep it out of the papers. “What most people don’t know is that his brother, Mario, has decided to turn state’s witness.”

Batman’s mouth curls up in grim amusement. Mario has always been a coward, hiding behind his friends, angry that daddy had passed him over for Vincent. Of course he’s jumping at the chance at some payback against the brother who was always favored above him.

“The problem is that Vincent’s got his daughter. And Mario won’t testify without a guarantee of her safety,” Gordon continues.

“Which you cannot provide,” Batman finishes.

Gordon spreads his hands. “We only just got the Dent Act passed. You know what people are saying. They think Garcia is overreaching, giving the GCPD too much power.”

“It’s necessary,” Batman says firmly. Batman is only one man, and the Dent Act has put dozens of cops on the streets, given Gordon real power to keep men like Maroni behind bars.

“Yes, but we have to play this one by the book. No going in without probable cause. We cannot let Maroni walk on a technicality.”

He removes a map from his pocket and spread it out on the top of the concrete wall. “We think she’s being held here.”

Batman memorizes the location. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. He has leaped from the building, catching the updraft, before Gordon’s ‘thank you’ reaches his ears.

***

Bruce spends the weeks between the winter holidays in a blissful fog. He divides his time between the manor and Jack’s apartment. He lays Jack back on his narrow bed and learns every angle and curve of his body with his hands and tongue. He traces soft fingertips over pale flesh, watching goosebumps spread over his lover’s skin. He gazes in rapt fascination as Jack’s comes apart under his hands, taking in each motion and sound he makes. Sometimes it is him, splayed out and arching into Jack’s eager, scarred mouth. They take their time, memorizing each other in delirious harmony.

Bruce has never been happier.

He pushes down the thought of graduation, and the acceptance letter tucked away in his dresser drawer at home. He should tell Jack. It isn’t fair that Bruce knows he will be going away in a few short months and hasn’t told him. It is cowardly, but he cannot help himself. Bruce has never belonged to anyone before. He does not want to do anything to break the tenuous threads that bind them.

He wonders if Alfred suspects the reason that Bruce is sneaking away more and more often. Probably. But the best thing about Alfred is his absolute faith in Bruce. He will not pry, or offer unsolicited advice. He lets Bruce alone.

On Christmas morning, Bruce lets himself into Jack’s apartment. Jack isn’t there, but this is no surprise. Bruce has learned that Jack will often stay away for days at a time, doing whatever it is he does when he’s in a wandering mood. Bruce doesn’t ask.

He takes off his coat and throws it over a chair. He clears off the piano top; cigarette wrappers, an overfilled ash tray, various coins, screws, matchbooks and detritus, and a snub-nosed Beretta that he’s seen Jack carrying under his coat. Bruce hates guns on principle, but he isn’t going to judge Jack for wanting the protection. It’s a dangerous neighborhood, and while Bruce knows Jack can handle himself, he doesn’t like the thought of him here alone. Bruce sets the gun aside and opens the back of the piano. He pulls out the book he’s brought with him, getting to work. It takes hours of painstaking effort, replacing frayed strings, tightening others, listening to the pitch of the tuning fork to get each note right.

He has just finished tuning the piano when he hears Jack clattering up the stairs.

Bruce closes the piano lid and sits down, playing through a few scales so Jack can hear the ringing, clear notes as he opens the door. “Hey there, man of the house. So glad you…” Bruce’s smile slides from his face as he takes in the blood on Jack’s shirt. His hands still on the keys.

“Are you—“

“It’s not mine,” Jack says grimly. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. Bruce hears the water running. The faded cherry stain of the piano blurred in front of Bruce’s eyes. He can smell the metallic scent of blood in his nostrils, feel it seeping into the knees of his pants as it pools and spreads from the prostrate bodies… He blinks, trying to wrench his mind away from the memory, but it lingers in the back of his brain—a primal, mind-numbing terror. Paralysis seeps into his muscles, gluing him to the spot. Nevertheless, he has the presence of mind to snap his head up as the bathroom door opens, Jack framed in the doorway. His hair hangs in damp strands. Bruce watches him as he crosses the room clad only in a pair of boxers. He pulls on a shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. Jack’s scarred chest gleams in the low light. Bruce’s eyes slide from Jack’s pale skin to the Beretta, laying in a pile of odds and ends on the dresser’s top.

He stands, the wooden chair falling over with a loud clatter. His mind is filled with white-noise, soothing rage coursing through his veins, crowding out his terror. Jack turns to him, calmly watching as Bruce lifts a fist and punches him. The smack of his knuckles impacting Jack’s cheekbone is shockingly loud. Jack reels back but keeps his feet. His eyes meet Bruce’s, a slight smile on his face.

Bruce punches him again.

Jack crumples, his smiling mouth opening to pour out laughter and Bruce is on him, howling with rage. He pins Jack to the ground, hitting everywhere he can reach. He loses count of the blows, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t even try to control himself. He grinds against Jack, muscles burning, his mind roaring with fear—the fear of losing something that is his.

Jack is still laughing as he hits him, the sound oddly soothing. He looks up at Bruce affectionately, blood streaming from his nose, and Bruce’s wavers. Bruce draws in a gasping breath. Something knowing enters Jack’s eyes and he shifts a little, arching against Bruce’s thighs. Jack is hard, and Bruce realizes that he is, too.

“You fucking bastard,” Bruce growls, and swoops down to kiss him.

Jack’s lips meet his with equal ferocity, tongues dueling for dominance. Jack’s hands claw and twist in Bruce’s shirt before he wrenches it up, breaking the kiss to pull it over Bruce’s head. Bruce bends to bite at Jack’s throat, licking at blood. Their hips move roughly against each other, pushing, gasping in between biting kisses. The fear is still bubbling over Bruce and he buries his face in Jack’s neck, clinging to him as Jack shutters beneath him.

“Brucie, shh now, it’s all right,” Jack whispers, running soothing hands down Bruce’s back.

Bruce is shaking, his eyes stinging. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling; everything in his head is a tangle of fear and rage and need. Jack takes advantage of his confusion, flipping them over. He grasps Bruce’s wrists, holding him down with a surprisingly strong grip, and bends to kiss him, open-mouthed and sweet. His blood trickles over Bruce’s face and Jack licks it away, lips spreading heat all over Bruce’s body. Bruce shuts his eyes, his brain in freefall. Jack mouths his way down Bruce’s neck, teeth rasping over his veins, nibbling on the flesh of his bare chest. He lets Bruce’s wrists go as he shifts down, and Bruce’s hands catch in Jack’s tangled hair, pulling the other man closer. Jack sucks Bruce’s nipple into his mouth, his tongue lapping at the nub of flesh without haste. His hands smooth down Bruce’s sides, then meet to trace over his fly. Bruce arches and Jack pulls back, smiling beatifically down at him. Bruce lifts his fingers, tracing the lines of scars on Jack’s cheeks with something akin to wonder catching in his chest. Jack playfully bites at his fingers, his own hands unfastening Bruce’s pants and pulling them down to release his straining cock.

Jack bends, sliding his hot mouth down Bruce’s length. He knows Bruce’s reactions better than Bruce does and he presses his advantage now. His tongue moves ceaselessly, licking diligently up the underside, circling the tip, plunging back down. He sucks hard, and Bruce groans, liquid fire pooling in his stomach. Jack’s cups his balls, gently squeezing as his voracious tongue strips every ounce of reason from Bruce’s mind, replacing it with a fever that spreads over his skin in a wave of prickling heat. Bruce lifts his head, wanting to watch that scarred mouth stretching around him. Jack’s meets his eyes and Bruce can see him rocking, his other hand thrust into his brightly-patterned boxers. That realization—that Jack is jacking off while he sucks Bruce’s cock—sends Bruce to another place. He groans and comes, thrusting helplessly into Jack’s hot mouth. Jack doesn’t stop, sucking and licking him through it, as Bruce twitches and moans helplessly. Jack whimpers against Bruce’s sensitized flesh, his whole body shuddering as his own orgasm overtakes him.

Everything is soft afterward. The fear that plundered his mind is gone, replaced by a tired sort of resignation. They eventually get up from the floor and stumble towards the bed, collapsing in a tangle of limbs. Bruce’s fingers stroke over Jack’s bruised face in mute apology. Jack smiles at him wearily, his eyes sliding closed. Bruce waits until Jack’s breath evens out, holding the slighter man tightly against him.

“I wish I could keep you,” he murmurs into Jack’s wild hair. He pulls Jack tighter against him and closes his eyes.

***

The hotel where they are holding the girl is near the freeway; a cheap, rundown hole filled with tired truckers and homeless who’ve scrounged up the money for a night’s stay. There are three guards, sitting at a small table playing cards. The girl sits on one of the double beds, clutching a stuffed bear and watching television. Batman shatters the door with one, well-placed kick. The first guy goes down like a folding chair with one blow, and the other two aren’t any harder to subdue. Its over in a matter of minutes; three of Maroni’s thugs out cold on the dingy carpet while the girl watches him with rounded eyes.

“Are you Jenny Maroni?” he asks, crouching down to secure each man’s wrists. She nods at him, holding her teddy bear to her chest. Batman stands. “Don’t be afraid,” he says. “I’ve come to take you back to your father.” The girl is still regarding him warily, but she allows him to pick her up and take her out to the waiting Tumbler.

He will never forgive himself for what happens next. One moment he is walking towards his vehicle with the girl in his arms. The second, he hears someone shouting at him, “Stop, police!,” and then the pop of a gun discharging. Batman dives for cover. He takes a few running steps and then his bad knee twists underneath him and he hits the pavement a few dozen feet from the Tumbler. He feels the impact of the bullets hit his armor and curls protectively around the girl in his arms, crawling quickly to the vehicle, prying the door open and pushing the girl inside. Bullets ping off the side of the Tumbler, ricocheting against the walls of the hotel, bits of masonry and paint exploding off at the impact.

“Batman, come out! You are under arrest!” He hears a voice call, and he peers over the Tumbler to see two rookie cops ducking down behind the doors of a police cruiser. One is desperately calling for backup over the radio, the wail of sirens already rending the air. Batman dives into the Tumbler, gunning it towards the police cruiser. The cops scatter as he hits the bumper, driving up and over it.

“Hold on,” he tells the girl in the other seat as he floors it, passing two police cars coming up the exit with lights flashing. They turn, giving chase.

The girl beside him lets out a small cry and Batman glances over at her, and then turns his attention more fully onto her, his heart catching. The girl is bent over, both hands clutching her stomach. Red stains her pink pajamas, seeping from around her hands. He reaches out but she shrinks from his touch, gasping in pain with the slight movement.

“Hold on!” he tells her again. “Just hold on!”

He heads downtown, police sirens screaming behind him. More have joined the chase; he can hear their chatter through the police scanner. Minutes tick by as Batman tries to shake them. He makes a series of sharp turns, counting on the Tumbler’s agility to lose a few of his pursuers in the winding, twisting streets of the Narrows. He turns off the lights and runs off the road, skirting the harbor. The cruisers scream past him, still heading downtown, and he throws the Tumbler into reverse and heads back towards the expressway.

“Alfred,” he calls on the radio. “I’ve got the girl but she’s been shot. I’m headed towards Saint Michaels. I need an emergency team outside.”

He glances at the girl again. She sits slumped against the door facing him, her face slack, her sightless eyes staring towards him. “No,” Batman moans, reaching for her. He can’t feel a pulse through his gloves and he peels one off desperately, driving one-handed and pressing two fingers to her jugular. Her hands slip from her middle, blood staining her entire front and puddling on the floor below. “No!”

“Batman?” Alfred’s concerned voice comes through the speakers.

Batman draws back, clutching the steering wheel in both hands.

“Belay that,” he speaks through gritted teeth. “She’s dead.”

He hears the old man’s indrawn breath. He closes his eyes, not wanting whatever comforting thing Alfred is going to say. He switches off the radio and pulls the Tumbler to a stop. The girl has fallen forward and he presses her back into the seat, smoothing brown hair from her face. Anger and grief howl through him, leaving him shaking and helpless. His fist hits the steering wheel, his bare flesh slipping, wet with Jenny Maroni’s blood.

His fault.

He screams, fists hitting the dashboard, leather and plastic cracking under the assault.

His fault.

If had said no, told Gordon the truth… The truth that he has never spoken aloud to anyone. The truth that he has barely acknowledged to himself. The truth that he should have admitted the first time he knew that his leg couldn’t carry him anymore.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t have time for this. He looks over at the small body beside him, nausea twisting his gut. He breaths slowly, pulling himself back together. He pulls out his cell phone. It is answered in one ring.

“Batman, Jesus I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that a patrol car would be—“

“The girl was shot,” Batman cuts Gordon off. “I am taking her to Saint Michaels. Meet me on the roof.”

He hangs up. His hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists. He is abruptly reminded of something Jack said to him the first time they met: There is no fairness in this world. Fair doesn’t matter.

What matters is who wins.

Batman pulls his gauntlet back on and heads downtown.

***

Jack switches on the TV, throwing himself onto the threadbare couch. They are in the boathouse. It is still too early in the spring to swim, but they’ve taken to meeting here rather than Bruce’s bedroom at the manor whenever they aren’t at Jack’s place. Bruce likes the privacy, but if he’s honest, he would rather be in Jack’s space. With graduation only a few weeks away, Bruce is grasping at minutes, he knows--anticipating the day when this is all going to end. If he holds Jack a bit too closely, squeezes too tightly in his frantic need to be near him, Jack says nothing.

Now, Jack surfs through channels until he finds GNC and sinks back. Bruce groans.

“Come back to bed.”

“Waste of time,” Jack calls. “Hey, did ya see that Maroni and Falcone are making nice?”

Bruce rolls out of bed and pads naked to lean over the back of the couch. “I do read the newspaper, you know,” he says drily, laying his forehead on Jack’s bare shoulder.

“Do you think they’ll make Mario some kind of kingpin?”

“That asshole? Never.” Bruce stands, retrieving his boxers from the floor and putting them on before sliding next to Jack on the couch. “He doesn’t have the brains.”

“His brother does, though.” Jack lays his head in Bruce’s lap, still watching the glossy newspeople on the screen. Bruce rolls his eyes at the broadcast, burying a hand in Jack’s hair. They’re calling Falcone a businessman, for Christ’s sake. Talk about unreliable news sources…

“I met him,” Jack goes on.

“Who?”

“Vincent Maroni. He’s smart. Vicious.” Jack grins evilly. “But banal, like all his kind. No imagination. No style. Just the same sort of common criminal that takes over every town.”

Bruce’s hand pets through Jack’s hair, tangling in curls. “Well, maybe we ought to take the town back then.”

“What, become a mobster?” Jack snorts. “No thanks.”

“I don’t mean a mobster. Something else. Something they would fear…” Bruce’s voice trails off.

Jack is looking at his strangely. “Like what?”

Bruce shrugs. He’s never really thought about it. He hates thugs like Maroni, but it’s not like there’s anything he can do about them. The world isn’t fair. No one can change that.

***

“Batman,” Gordon greets. “What happened?”

“Is Maroni downstairs?”

“Yes.” He runs a hand through his silvering hair. “I called him, but I didn’t know what to tell him.”

“Tell him that I killed her.”

There is a beat of ringing silence between them before Gordon turns on him. “Bullshit,” he says vehemently. “That is bullshit and we both know it. I’m not going to—“
“It’s what is needed,” Batman says tiredly. “Think about it. If you convince Mario that I was working for Vincent—“

“He won’t buy that,” Gordon interjects.

“He will. If you tell him, he will.” Batman walks to the edge of the building and looks over. It is a long way down. “Commissioner—Jim. No one likes Batman. The mob doesn’t like me because of what I do, and the public doesn’t like me because I have to do it. It’s why they believed you about Harvey. It’s why they will believe you now.”

He speaks all of this gently, each word tearing a strip from his heart. It is the truth. It has always been the truth. Batman is a necessary evil, but still an evil.

“You’re a hero,” Gordon says, as if reading his mind. “If people knew what you’d done—who you are…”

Batman laughs bitterly. “Maybe I’m just a guy who doesn’t know when to stop.”

Gordon gives a mirthless chuckle. “That’s probably true.” He turns to face Batman, still staring over the edge of the building. “But this isn’t right. It isn’t fair.”

“Fair doesn’t matter.”

Gordon regards him for a long minute before he nods. “I don’t like this. But I’ll do it.”

Batman’s shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you.” He jumps onto the ledge, about to trigger his cape and fling himself forward when Gordon’s voice stops him.

“I want you to promise me something.” Gordon steps closer, his voice intense. “If I do this, if I let you take the fall again, then you have to promise me that you will stop this. I have the manpower, and with Mario’s help we will take out the last of the mob in Gotham. Go out and live your life. Do whatever it is you do, but don’t come back.”

Batman lets his eyes slide closed. Wind whips around his face, stirring the folds of his cloak. His chest aches, but he turns and catches Gordon’s eye. Gordon’s face is creased in sympathy, and Batman can see how much it hurt Gordon to say all of that. He is abruptly reminded of the first time he met this man—a beat cop offering comfort to a child who had just lost his parents.

“I promise,” Batman rasps, chest raw with howling grief. He doesn’t wait for Gordon’s answer—just flings himself into the night.

***

At 9am, Gordon makes the announcement of Jenny Maroni’s death at the hands of Batman, and the subsequent arrest of Vincent Maroni.

At noon, he gets the message that Joker has escaped from Arkham Asylum.

Part Four

Break My Fall 2/4

2013-03-12T00:12:00Z

A/N: If you follow me on fanfiction.net, I am posting this chapter by chapter over there.

Part One

Bright colors, lights, press of people. He pushes past the crowd, fear clogging his throat. He hits the cool night air and pulls in deep calming breaths. He feels a warm, broad hand on his back, and the fear abates a bit. There is the buzz of voices talking over his head, and then the stiffening of his father’s body beside him as the man emerges from the shadows, the barrel of the gun bright as silver in his hand. The fear rushes back, twisting in his gut and he is pushed out, away. A deafening sound; one, two, three—crimson unfurling even as his parents fall, broad splashes staining grey concrete. Screaming. He falls to his knees beside them, pain a sharp bright thing in his chest--

Bruce wakes, gasping and shaking.

He goes into the bathroom and washes his face, drinks a handful of water.

He lays awake the rest of the night, straight and silent in his dark bedroom. In the morning, he gets ready for school and hides his fatigue-bruised eyes from Alfred.

He doesn’t allow himself to wish for someone to tell.

***

Grim darkness, cold wind pushing past his face, chilling exposed skin. He leans forward, ignoring everything else in the aching need to move faster, gain a few more seconds. Rage and fear twist in his belly and, far in the back of his mind, a pale face and a soft fall of hair.

He rounds the corner, kicks off from the still-moving bike and runs full-out. Pounds through the door, skidding to a stop in front of hundreds of barrels, a circle of light and lying within, the wrong face. The wrong person.

A tinny radio carries her last words. A roar, like a thousand voices screaming at once, and then the crack and shattering of concrete as the building erupts into flame—

Bruce wakes, gasping and shaking.

He levers himself up, gets to the bathroom in time to puke into the sink. He runs shaking hands across his face and stares into his own eyes in the mirror, waiting for the pain and grief to subside. He pads down to the gym in the darkness and takes out his frustration on his own aching body.

In the morning, he will return to his room and shower and give himself a cortisone shot, so Alfred doesn’t notice the stiffness in his leg and how he’s punished himself long past the point of exhaustion.

He needs to see Joker again.

***

The phone call was an invitation. Joker wants his attention, Bruce knows. And his attention might be the distraction he needs to keep Joker in Arkham until he works out a better solution. It might be enough to make Joker stay put, at least for as long as Bruce makes it interesting.

He’s fucking lying to himself and he knows it.

It has nothing to do with keeping Joker in Arkham. It is about excising Joker—finally and forever—from his brain.

It takes Bruce six weeks of research to find another way into Arkham. The solution is so simple that he is surprised that it didn’t occur to him before. He only needed to find a security guard in deep with the mob and desperate for money. The Wayne fortune does the rest, and he has a short window of uninterrupted and, more importantly, unobserved, time with everyone’s favorite clown. After that, it’s just waiting.

Bruce gets the call in the afternoon and is inside within the hour. br>

“He’s been restrained,” Bernard, his bought-off security guard, tells him. “But you should still be careful. Don’t touch him. Don’t go near him. He’s fast, even with his leg all fucked up.” They pause at a heavy steel door. “The nurses are on break but I can only give you twenty minutes. I’ll knock three times, then open.”

Bruce nods. The door opens and closes. And then, he is alone with Joker.

The madman is sitting in the corner, his left leg straight out, the other tucked underneath him. The brace is gone, no doubt taken after Joker stripped the metal parts in his comeback killing spree. He is strapped into a straightjacket, his arms bound tightly to his chest. His head is still shaved. His feet are bare.

He looks harmless.

This is an illusion.

Joker’s eyes lock onto Bruce’s face-- vivid and corrosive. His balance shifts as he leans forward, his leg twisting underneath him until he’s almost crouching. His tongue flickers out, wetting dry lips, lingering at the knot of scar tissue at the corner of his mouth. He cants his head to the side, eyes narrowing.

They stand and stare at each other as the moments tick by.

Finally, Joker relaxes, slumping back against the wall. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one,” he says. “A priest walks into a bar with a duck under his arm. The bartender says—“

Bruce punches him.

Joker’s head hits the wall with a dull thump, but Joker’s foot lashes out, hitting Bruce in his bad knee. Bruce doesn’t fall but it’s a close thing. Rage blurs his vision and he hits him again, feeling the crunch of cartilage beneath his knuckles.

Joker grins at him, wide and blood-stained. “So, the bartender says, ‘What’s with the duck?’ And the priest says—“ His voice huffs into a laugh as Bruce plants a fist into his stomach. He collapses, cackling and panting.

“Fine, okay, you don’t like jokes,” Joker says. He fights his way to his knees. The hard concrete must hurt against his unhealed knee, but he is still huffing out giggles. “Don’t suppose you’ll be a dear and help me loosen the straps on this lovely coat, will you? No?”

He pushes himself back against the wall and peers up at Bruce.

“So, you want to talk about Harvey’s squeeze,” he drawls.

He waits for Bruce’s reluctant nod.

“Ooh-ho, I can tell you stories,” he says. “You want to know how much she cried? She was scared at first, but she warmed up after a while. You know, I think she always had a thing for me. You should have seen her at the party. Mmmm…”

Bruce steps forward, livid, but Joker’s next words stop him. “She talked about you, right before I wired her up. Wanted me to tell you something. Do you want to know what it was?” His voice drops conspiratorially, and Bruce leans forward to hear him.

Joker looks up at him, a cat-smile curling his lips. “She said—“

Bang. Bang. Bang. The guard’s knock on the door is deafening.

The smile widens, mocking laughter pouring out. “Time’s up,” he sing-songs.

The door opens.

“See ya later, cupcake,” Joker chortles.

***

The week before spring break is unseasonably hot and, as if by consensus, most of the juniors at Brentwood Academy skip afternoon classes to hang out by the nearest body of water. Rachel’s school is across town, and she cannot be talked into blowing off even one class and so Bruce is on his own. He spends most of his time at the little boathouse on the far edge of the manor’s grounds, alternating between swimming in the river and sunning himself on the dock. His father’s yacht is in storage across town, but the small cottage is fully furnished with a bed, television and kitchenette. By Wednesday, Bruce has stashed enough food and canned soda in the mini fridge that he doesn’t need to sneak back into his own room until dinner time.

Bruce makes his way across the grounds, carefully avoiding the gardens and anywhere else he might encounter Alfred, and picks his way down to the shore. Long soft grass dampers his footfalls, and the wide boughs of the oaks and walnuts dapple his path in shifting patterns of sunlight. Lazy insects float on the air, and he negligently waves them away with the book he’s carrying under one arm.

As he gets closer, he can hear singing, loud and tuneless.

I’ve been to Georgia and California, anywhere I could run

Took the hand of a preacherman and we made love in the sun

I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free

There is a gigantic splash and the voice cuts off, before sputtering out the last line of the chorus:

I’ve been to paradise, but I haven’t been to me .

Bruce pauses at the treeline, watching the skinny boy as he bobs in the water like a cork, pushing off from the bottom and flinging his arms wide to create ripples. His blond hair is pasted in wet ringlets to his face and neck, and he giggles and launches into the next verse with all the self-consciousness of a child at play.

Bruce steps out from the shade of the trees and down the steep path to the dock. He pauses at the lawn chair he’s placed near the door to the boathouse to set down his book and discard his shoes and socks.

“Hey-ho, look who finally showed up,” Jack crows as soon as Bruce steps back out into the sunlight.

“You swim here often?” Bruce asks drily. He twists his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt but decides to leave it on for now.

“Since this morning. Naughty naughty, keeping this all to yourself.”

Bruce drifts closer. Jack’s chest is pale and littered with scars. Something in Bruce’s stomach lurches at the sight of his wet skin, appearing and disappearing as the boy bounces in the water. Bruce breathes in slowly through his nose, stepping to the end of the dock. The boards are damp beneath his feet. The water is grey and blue, swirling with tiny orange algae and strands of limp brown seaweed. Far away, Bruce can hear the hum of traffic on the Kane Bridge. He smiles down at Jack and executes a neat dive into the water.

***

He gets the next call a month later. “No hitting this time,” Bernard tells him. “It’s not worth what you’re paying me to explain that.”

They’ve added a table and two chairs to the room. Joker is out of the jacket, cuffed with plain padded cuffs to the table in front of him. There is a newspaper spread on the tabletop.

“A gift,” he says, nodding down at it. “Because I’m making progress. There’s a lovely doctor here—Quinzell, her name is—thinks I’m just doing peachy.”

He smiles and nudges the other chair with his foot, offering it to Bruce. Bruce doesn’t relinquish his spot by the door.

“Driveby shooting, 5 bystanders dead,” Joker indicates the headline with obvious relish. “That’s the Eighty-Sixers’ turf, isn’t it?”

Bruce doesn’t respond. They both know it’s true, and what it means. That someone is moving in on Eighty-Sixers territory.

“Which means it’s either the Russians or Maroni.”

“Maroni’s dead,” Bruce says.

Joker cackles delightedly. “Harvey?” He doesn’t wait for Bruce’s confirming nod. “Oh, I knew he would be good for so many things. Well, that puts you in quite a pickle, doesn’t it?”

Bruce takes the proffered chair. “How so?”

“Well, with your friend Gordon minting new cops, and Batman branded the murderer of our dear, departed Dent…”

Bruce’s mouth flatlines. “I am not discussing that with you.”

“Fine, fine. So, what did you want to talk about?” Joker cocks his head and regards him. “Last words, wasn’t it? You wanna know what my old man’s last words were? ‘Son, if you do that one more time…’” He chuckles to himself.

“Your jokes haven’t gotten any better,” Bruce observes.

“Eh, it’s a matter of perspective,” Joker waves his fingers, substituting for the grander gesture he obviously wants to make. “I told you before, it’s about choices. You chose to be a frowny face from day one. I chose to always smile.”

He leans back as far as his shackled hands will allow, grinning brightly at Bruce.

“I don’t have to come here,” Bruce states.

“Oh-ho, you think so?” Laughter bubbles out of him, sharp as glass. Bruce clenches his fists until the laugher sputter down. “You’ll come for me, Brucie,” Joker’s purr makes the double entendre evident. “You always have.”

Bruce’s mouth tightens. He is not going to talk about his friendship with Jack when the man in front of him is nothing but his enemy.

“Choices,” he prompts.

“Oh yes,” Joker says, leaning forward again. “You made your choices. She made hers.” His eyes catch and hold Bruce’s. “And she didn’t choose you.”

“Liar.”

Joker’s smile is almost pitying. “That’s what she said. ‘Tell him I’m sorry,’” he affected a high-pitched voice. He laughs, then drops his voice into his regular timbre and continues, “She couldn’t take it, what you are. She wanted someone normal. Can’t blame her.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

Bruce stood up, stormed to the door. He knocks three sharp raps. The door swings open.

“She left you a letter,” Joker calls after him. “Ask Jeeves about it, if you don’t believe me.”

Bruce slams the door shut, leaving Bernard to stumble along after him.

***

Jack often shows up unexpectedly. Sometimes he’ll be absent for days, sometimes weeks. Bruce finds him at the lakehouse or, as summer turns to autumn, seeking shelter under the trellis beneath Bruce’s balcony. Bruce opens the sliding glass door and Jack climbs up and they play chess, or cards. Jack knows dozens of variations of poker, and shuffles the cards with the showmanship of a Vegas dealer, cards appearing and disappearing between his long fingers. Sometimes he performs magic tricks and even shows Bruce how to do them when Bruce demands to be let in on the secret.

Bruce thinks they are friends, of a sort.

It’s nothing like his friendship with Rachel. He’s never really sure that Jack likes him. Indeed, sometimes he seems more resigned to Bruce’s company than anything else. He is sometimes sulky and belligerent, picking fights with Bruce until they nearly come to blows, only to reappear a few days later like nothing happened. And when he’s not being antagonistic, he’s straight up annoying. Jack is constant noise and energy, tearing through the room like a hurricane, mouth running a continuous stream of nonsense.

Sometimes, Bruce hates him.

But there are other times when Jack comes to him pinched and hollow-eyed with exhaustion. Jack seldom sleeps, Bruce knows. He sometimes stays awake for days at a time, only to show up at Bruce’s window looking seconds away from collapsing. Bruce watches him rove around the room like a wind-up toy until he finally runs down, folding himself onto the nearest piece of furniture and curling up like a child.

There is a shocking intimacy to this, to having Jack warm and pliant and totally unguarded in his presence. It pierces Bruce’s chest with unexpected warmth. Jack’s face is still and pale, the scars on his cheeks pink and shiny. His blond curls fan out like seaweed, the pale shell of an ear peeking out. The top knot of his spine protrudes from the gapping back of his t-shirt. Bruce’s eyes trace the long, lean curve of his spine before he steps back, hands fisted, and retreats to the other side of the room.

This, he tells himself, is why he keeps their friendship secret for so long.

They are sitting in Bruce’s room one blustery October evening.

“Flush,” Jack says, laying down his cards.

“Cheater,” Bruce says without anger.

“Not if you don’t catch me,” Jack rejoins. Jack cheats outrageously, and encourages Bruce to do the same. It’s all part of the game, according to him.

“All games of chance are loaded against you,” he had told Bruce one long-ago evening at the lakehouse, insects buzzing in the heat and the shuffle of the cards between his fingers almost hypnotic. “Winners make their own luck.” He picks four cards out of the deck, seemingly at random, and sets them down in front of Bruce.

Bruce turns them over at Jack’s urging, revealing four identical red jokers. Bruce chucked them at Jack’s laughing face. “Always the joker,” he scoffs.

Bruce lays down his own hand, “Royal flush.”

“Oh-ho, and I didn’t even notice you holding onto that suicide king. Very nice.”

Bruce gathers up the cards, makes to shuffle them again when he hears a familiar voice calling down the hallway, “Bruce?”

He freezes for a second. He’d forgotten that Rachel was coming for a study session.

“I hope you’ve got your brain fired up,” she continues. “Because this chemistry stuff is really kicking my—oh.” She stops when she rounds the corner. “Sorry, I didn’t know you invited someone else.”

“It’s okay,” Bruce says hastily, the cards spilling from his hands as he stands. “I mean, he’s not here to study. Rachel this is Jack. Jack, Rachel.”

Jack waves a laconic hand at her, his eyes sharp on Rachel’s face.

“Oh, well nice to meet you,” she says, drifting closer. Bruce can tell the moment when she notices the scars. Her eyes widened and then narrow, her mouth tightening in sympathy. “Do you go to Brentwood?”

“Ah—no.” Jack’s voice sounds strange, too casual, but with an undercurrent of menace. “School’s for fools.”

“You don’t go to school?” Rachel sets her books on their table and sits down between them.

Bruce cuts Jack a look. Take it easy. She’s my friend.

“Don’t your parents care that you aren’t getting an education?”

She means well, Bruce knows that. Rachel isn’t mean-spirited. Her question is an honest attempt to understand. But it sets Jack’s teeth on edge, all the same. Bruce can see him bristle, even though his posture becomes even more casual, his tone more diffident.

“Dead, both of ‘em. Oh it was tragedy, let me tell you. Huge fire, could be seen for miles around. Arson, they said. I was the only one that escaped.”

Rachel’s brows knit together at Jack’s tone and the way he seems to relish telling the story.

“Sometimes though,” Jack says, leaning close to her, peering up into her face and flashing his scars to full advantage. “Some-times, I still hear them screaming. The smell of burning flesh…have you ever smelled it?” Rachel’s face is horror-stricken. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever smelled before, let me tell you. And the smoke—“

“That’s enough,” Bruce says. He seizes Jack by the wrist and lifts him from the chair. “Come on.”

He hustles Jack towards the door. Jack throws a bright “Too-da-loo!” at Rachel before Bruce shoves him out onto the balcony and shuts the door.

“Did you see her face?” Jack sputters around a laugh.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bruce tells him.

“Uh-oh, looks like someone’s mad,” he chirps, still giggling. He reaches out to pat Bruce’s cheek and Bruce has had enough. He catches Jack’s wrist, squeezing hard. Jack ignores the obvious warning, or maybe he doesn’t care. His laugh is high and shrill and it sends Bruce right over the edge. Bruce’s fist snaps out, catches Jack on the chin and Jack rocks back. There’s no place for him to go with Bruce still holding his wrist, so he bounces back instead, surging towards Bruce with all the energy of a coiled spring, landing a blow to Bruce’s ear that makes his eyes water.

It’s all a blur after that. The fight is frenzied and uncoordinated, the balcony too small for them to do more than clumsily jab and scratch at each other. The angles are all wrong, and Bruce won’t relinquish his hold on Jack’s other wrist, even as Jack twists and bucks against his hold like a pissy cat. Bruce kicks Jack in the shin, and Jack responds with a weak punch to his stomach. He’s pretty sure that Jack tries to bite him at one point.

It is completely ridiculous.

It feels wonderful.

Bruce’s mind is utterly blank, but everything is bright and sharp. His skin burns where Jack has scratched and punched and gouged—a dozen bright sparks that remind him that he is alive. They are grinning at each other like idiots, trying to tear each other apart and it feels wonderful.

Bruce has no idea how long it goes on before Rachel’s voice intrudes and they spring apart like guilty lovers, breathing hard. Bruce feels a trickle of blood on his cheek. There is the sound of the trellis scratching against the wall as Jack clambers down and away.

“Oh my god, were you guys fighting out here?” Rachel asks incredulously.

“It’s not a big deal,” Bruce says, brushing past her and back into the room.

“Uh-huh.” Rachel follows him to the table. Bruce sits down heavily, the hum of adrenaline still thumping through his blood. He is still smiling, he realizes. Rachel digs in her backpack and hands him a Kleenex. “You’ve got blood on your lip,” she says.

“Yeah?” he says. He takes the proffered tissue and wipes it away.

***

”Did you bring any cards?”

Bruce’s mouth is set in a grim line.

“I didn’t come here to play with you, Joker.”

“Of course you did,” Joker rejoins with a laugh.

Bruce scoots his chair closer. “I want to know how you knew about the letter.”

“Ah, your honeybun told you, did he?”

Joker twists his wrists in the shackles, making the chain rattle.

“How did you know he destroyed it?”

Joker leans back as far as he can, peering into Bruce’s face.

“’Yet each man kills the things he loves..’” he quotes from memory. “’The coward does it with a kiss.’” He smacks his lips contemplatively. “Do you think he ever would have told you?”

“He was trying to help.”

“And that makes it all a-okay, does it? That he was helping?”

Bruce breathes a slow breath in, trying to hold his temper. Because no, it doesn’t make it okay. Alfred had lied to him and the betrayal stings worse than any loss Bruce has ever known. To lose her last words to him, even if those words were a rejection-- Bruce cannot even fathom a way to forgive him, or to retrieve their friendship. It burns him that Joker is the cause of yet one more broken relationship in his life.

“I told you before,” Joker tells him gently. “You aren’t one of them, however much you try to be. I know you, Bruce. I know that you will fight yourself bloody to fit into the cage you think you’re fit for. You will clip your wings. You will cripple yourself.” He holds Bruce’s eyes. “You will break your heart.”

“By what? Caring? Having people in my life that I can trust?”

“For not trusting the right people.”

“And who should I trust?” Bruce demands. “You?”

Joker erupts into laughter. “Is that what you think I’m after? Nonono, Brucie. I want you to trust you.”

***

He doesn’t see again Jack for six weeks.

It is the day before Thanksgiving break and there is already a few inches of snow on the ground. The student body is buzzing excitedly, anxious for the bell to announce the beginning of the holiday. Bruce just finds it depressing. With his parents gone and no extended family to speak of, the holidays are always difficult. Alfred tries, Bruce knows he does. He always prepares a big meal--turkey and stuffing and all the trimmings--but there is only he and Alfred, and sometimes Rachel and her mother, to eat it all. It’s not the same as the picture in Bruce’s head of a big family talking and laughing around the table. What should be a celebration always manages to come off dreary and sad.

This year, Bruce had finally worked up the courage to ask Alfred to stop observing the holiday. Alfred hadn’t liked it, but he’d acquiesced, announcing that Bruce was old enough to decide for himself which holidays to observe. Bruce was ridiculously grateful for the respite from the enforced gaiety of the holiday season.

The school bell rings and the students break for the door. Bruce lags behind, fiddling around in his locker until the halls clear out, and then heads for the exit.

Jack is slouched in the vee of the entrance and the science wing. “Thought I might have missed you,” he says.

Bruce shakes his head, clutching the straps of his backpack awkwardly. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure that he’d see Jack again. Not after their fight. “Here I am,” Bruce says, trying for casual and utterly failing.

Jack looks amused. “Come on.” He starts across the frozen lawn, slipping and sliding on snow that’s been packed down by hundreds of feet. Bruce falls into step beside him as they head towards the mostly-empty parking lot.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says after a few moments of silence. “That I hit you.”

Jack abruptly stops walking. Bruce stops too, looking around for the reason until Jack swings to face him. His looks absolutely murderous, his mouth set in an angry, flat line, his green eyes livid. He’s always been taller than Bruce, but at this moment he seems to tower over him.

“No you’re not,” Jack says flatly.

It’s true; Bruce is not sorry. But he knows he should be. People—normal people—don’t hit their friends. And they certainly don’t feel good about it afterward. The truth is that Bruce loved every last second of their fight, could think of nothing for days afterward but the feel of Jack’s hands on him. But he knew that that was wrong.

Bruce looks down, not wanting Jack to see it. Jack doesn’t make too much of those effort through. He takes Bruce’s face between his hands and forces his head back up. His hands are warm on Bruce’s cheeks, his thumbs pressing into the soft underside of Bruce’s jaw as he gazes into Bruce’s eyes.

“Don’t ever apologize to me again,” Jack says.

His fingers tighten for just a second, and then he lets go, turning back to stride across the parking lot, leaving Bruce to trail along in his wake.

Part Three