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"There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin
In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene
Only then I am human
Only then I am clean
Amen, Amen, Amen"
It never matters what Bruce’s reasons are for bringing the clown home. Whether it’s a dozen stab wounds or half a dozen broken ribs or something as simple as a virulent flu strain, the Joker always looks at Bruce in the same way: like he’s received sanctuary from hell. Like Bruce Wayne is all he can see.
Bruce’s reason today is currently curled up on the sofa under two quilts even though it’s warm for a spring day. He’s been there for the better part of the past three days, shivering and coughing and running a fever that won’t dip below a hundred in spite of everything you’ve tried.
As per usual The Master Himself (despite his best efforts) has driven himself half-mad from concern over the other man’s condition. He’s barely left the Joker’s side except to bring him water, and it took the Joker finally saying Your old man’s right Bruce, i can smell your friggin’ b.o. from here to convince him to leave the sofa and take a shower.
The Joker’s eyes follow in Bruce’s direction and for a moment you can see it: Fondness. And adoration, and devotion. Your spine chills even though it’s warm,
for a spring day.
He’s pretty rattled, the Joker remarks, wincing as he swallows. You nod, and pass the wet cloth across his forehead again.
He’d be easier if you tried to eat something. The Joker rolls black-framed his eyes dramatically but he bites the corner of his lip too, like he usually does when he’s anxious.
i’m not sure that’s a good idea.
He just wants you to try. That’s all he’s asking.
i guess, the Joker replies with a shrug, but he avoids your gaze and chews at his bottom lip.
Is your stomach still bothering you? You ask. The clown huffs.
i’m maxed out on promethazine until six o’clock, he mutters without looking at you, which you take to mean that he’s feeling pretty ill.
If you at least have a bit of applesauce or something it might help the nausea a little, you tell him, but the Joker pales visibly at the suggestion, swallows hard.
i just. He sighs, and tips his head back against the arm of the sofa. i’d really like to avoid puking today, if at all possible. Usually throwing up is no big deal to me but right now i’d prefer not to tear up my throat any more.
i know you don’t want to worry him, but if you’re really not up to eating he needs to know. You nod in the direction of the closed bathroom door. The Joker gets out half a laugh and then coughs, and stares at the ceiling with faraway fever eyes. For a moment he turns his left hand just so that the ring on his finger catches the grey sunlight slatting in through the blinds, and bounces color all around the room. He doesn’t seem interested in talking any more. You clear your throat to say
i’ll speak to him, if you’d prefer. The Joker frowns.
But if i. If i don’t try. He’ll...i can’t...he trails off, and ducks his head down so that his faded green curls hide his face. Your hand seems to move of its own accord, pushing the curtain of hair away before you guide him to lie back. He looks so innocuous without his great purple coat wrapped around him, without the gun in his hand and the boom in his voice and the pure boundless rage fireworking from his every atom,
and only traces of makeup clinging to his eyelids, and to his lips. Without all of this he looks very young.
Just rest for now, you tell him as you tuck the quilt in. i’ll get something sorted out.
The Joker looks up at you, and a small watery smile curls up into his scars.