Warning: This chapter contains graphic slash, blood, and dub-con. But isn't that par for the course of this pairing?

Take a look and see I painted you a picture;
It's black and white, except the blood's a little richer.
Down in the corner where I gave it my signature,
and then I titled it, "This One's for the Winter."

-Alkaline Trio, Love Love Kiss Kiss

Crooked fingers snapped impatiently to grab his attention. He'd been sitting here for the past five minutes with his eyes glazed and lost in the all consuming void of white spread out in front of him. His gaze lifted to the maniac hunched over the table across from him.

"Stay on this planet, 'kay? Only sane people get to leave."

Bruce opened his mouth to rebuke -he was very much sane; he wasn't too far gone; he could always come back- but one of the orderlies shouted for the clown to sit back down and a strange hand landed on Bruce's shoulder. Body tense, he whipped his head around to find crow's feet, a graying black braid, and a kind smile.

"How are things going over here?"

"Over here" meant the table of two when it's built to seat six and the four other tables in the room were crowded. The art therapist (a Doctor Wadz or Miller for all he paid attention) patiently stood there waiting for his reply like she actually cared. Under his fingertips, he felt the smooth bumps and grooves of the table beneath the very blank sheet of paper taped down to it. He couldn't remember if he was supposed to be drawing a house or a tree or something psychologically revealing; he'd been too distracted with the out-of-place rosy pink walls littered with crude paintings, disturbing self-portraits, and still-lifes of misshapen fruit.

At this point he much rather be back in his uneventful, little cell.

"We're doing just swell, Dr. K," the clown answered for him. "He's, uh, conceptualizing. A real, aha, brooding artist, this one."

With that distraction, the matronly hand that had been resting on him for far too long retreated with a parting pat. The vigilante was grateful for it.

"Well, be sure to get a move on then. I'm very eager to see what you come up with, Bruce," said this Dr. K.

Grinning lips fell into an affronted pout. "Awww, didn't ya miss me, Bev?"

"Why of course, J. Never before have I encountered art with your... unique perspective." Her smile was genuine, not at all strained in the face of present company. She had to be crazy herself or very confident in the small slew of orderlies stationed around the room. "It's a joy to have you back. I'll let you both get to work."

The clown nodded but his attention was fixed on Bruce in an expectant stare. "Must say I'm pret-ty eager myself. A fella who runs around as a, uh, giant bat has gotta have a wackadoodle flair for the arts." Battered forearms folded across his own paper, smearing shapes Bruce had a hard time discerning as anything cohesive upside down. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if the work in progress was one of those pictures you had to cross your eyes to see the true image beneath the mess.

"I am waiting with baited breath, Batsy."

Weirdly relaxing under the mocking scrutiny, his gaze drifted downward to the pathetic scatter of pastels set out between them. There wasn't much of a selection, not that he cared about colors, reaching out and awkwardly pinching his fingers around a stump of black chalk. He barely registered the smooth texture before it was being plucked from his hand with a murmured, "Yoink."

He looked deadpan at the chalk-snatching culprit. "You're stifling my creativity."

The Joker grinned, twirling the pastel and getting soot all over his hand. He said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows.

Refusing to break the staring contest, Bruce blindly grabbed another fragile piece and stabbed it at the paper. He glanced down at the telltale crack to find a yellow splotch surrounded by broken chips and powder.

Chortling sounded as a hand reached out and swept the remains off to the side. "Never mind, you've got no finesse. Only a proper artist when it comes to breaking bones," the Joker accented his point by snapping a bright pink stick of chalk in half.

"Respect the supplies, J," Dr. K. recited from the other side of the room like it was something she stated on a daily basis.

Smile lines blended with the stark fissures of Glasgow scars. The tiniest vein of something dark and riotous twitched beneath the thin skin of the Joker's neck. Spidery fingers tapped perfect prints onto white in contemplation until his palm landed with a puff of swamp green. He brightened. "What you need is a model."

Without further ado the clown jumped to his feet, his uniform already partially undone and hanging off one bare shoulder. That was another thing Bruce had to contend with involving daily life with the Joker: He didn't believe in wearing anything underneath his jumpsuit. It turned the vigilante's neck red and made his skin itch and his eyes linger. Quickly he averted his eyes and trained them on his paper, listening to the art therapist instruct the other man to sit and to "kindly right his apparel," whatever the hell that meant but Bruce wasn't stupid enough to look for himself.

The Joker sat with a huff, clothes disheveled but mostly covered up. He shrugged, one of his collar bones poking out sharply with the movement. "I suppose they don't want my, ah, stunningly virile form to incite another orgy. That's why they locked me up all by lonesome to begin with, didn't you know?"

"Right," Bruce snorted quietly, the quirk of his lips soon falling as the accusing blankness of his paper flared under the fluorescent lights. Whispers of chalk and blending fingertips surrounded him, creating the smallest pit of anxiety inside him like he was doing something wrong -falling behind- and he was once again that newly orphaned rich kid that ignored his teachers and stared dumbly at the meaningless words in a text book and overheard his classmates assume he was slow.

"Hey, Bev?" The nasal voice pulled him from the thickening fog of his thoughts. "I noticed our table wasn't given the almighty color of passion. Now tell me why that is."

The art therapist looked up balefully from her stoop over an inmate's scribbling. "You very well know why we don't give you red anymore. It upsets some of your fellow patients, remember? Try to make do with what you have."

Once again that visible pulse down his neck that this time Bruce couldn't really tear himself away from now that he noticed it surged beneath the surface. He wondered how he could have missed it. That miniscule oversight bothered him, but this was what he had asked for when Horn wanted to release him into this hyper-controlled little world inside a bleached bubble. He didn't want to do it alone. Even when his mission gave way to masks and striking fists and outrunning police cruisers in the dead of night, he still had Alfred there in his ear, updating him and making small talk, reminding Bruce he was still a person under the cowl.

Keeping him tethered.

He already had a glimpse of the person he could become when isolation took hold, and that terror alone made him cling to whoever kept him out of the black hole of his thoughts. He studied the clown through his lashes, the line of his scars on one cheek churning and bunching.

This was desperation; that made it okay.

Unfortunately he couldn't control the shark-like dilation of his pupils as he realized the Joker had been biting the mangled inside of his cheek. Dusty fingers swiped through the trail of blood carefully spat out into his palm and decorated the page in delicate strokes. He carried on with his work like normal. Eventually he caught on to the dark look he was receiving from across the table and shrugged with a stained, self satisfied smirk.

"She did say to make do with what I have."

Mouth dry, the vigilante could only stare. Ghostly traces of bitter iron bled through his palette as he felt his heart rate speed up, thumping in his ears.

"Problem, Bats?" Focused intently on his work, the Joker flicked at the small puddle in his palm. Tiny droplets sprayed outward across both papers and struck wetly at the corner of Bruce's pursed mouth. The fallen hero didn't even flinch, strung tight and imperceptibly shaking.

When the snap came, it was in the form of Dr. K.'s misplaced, matronly hand. Several things happened at once. Bruce jumped to stand, his feet already working to distance himself. The kick of his legs threw the chair back into the older woman's gut and knocked her to the ground, wheezing and sparking a powder keg of inmates and orderlies alike throwing themselves into a violent cluster of flipped tables and flying papers.

Bruce blinked owlishly, standing like a lighthouse in a storm and gazing around him. Cackling rang out amidst the chaos and a sure hand grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him from the room. He went along without resisting, hypnotized by the tumult he was just now realizing he'd caused, all because of-

Out into the abrupt quiet of the hall, he looked over to his "rescuer" and sure enough the clown was tugging him along with a skip to his step. The delighted grin he turned on Bruce was still slicked with glittering rubies, and the mere sight had the low rumbling previously brewing in his throat grow. His puppet limbs stiffened. His quick, searching eyes latched onto an unmarked door. In one swift motion, he tore out of the happy jester's grasp and created a claw-grip of his own, his large hand swallowing the Joker's wiry bicep. His other hand yanked the stubborn handle with all of his strength -ignoring the crack and jangle of the broken latch- and he threw the laughing man inside the dark room and followed close behind.

On the other side of the asylum, Richard Horn glared at the gold placard fixed eye level on the door before resignedly raising his fist and knocking. He rolled his eyes at the soft call from within and slapped on a smile as he stepped inside.

"Joan, hello. What's so important that couldn't be said in a phone call or office e-mail and I had to come up here and take precious time from such a busy woman?" The bite to his tone clashed with his genial face as he walked forward and glared daggers dulled behind the harsh reflection of his glasses at the woman seated at her desk.

Leland's answering smile was tenuous at best. "Richard, you know I'm never too busy to check in with my fellow doctors. It's... nice to see you again. What has it been, weeks?"

"Oh, it couldn't have been that long." Horn settled in his own seat with a mock frown. "Why, it feels like only yesterday that you were threatening to take my patient away all because his rehabilitation wasn't going fast enough for you."

Her smile persevered. "I think we both know that that discussion didn't occur that way. If that's the interpretation you took from my concerns then I apologize."

"So you've called me from my work to say you're sorry?" Richard's smile gone, his hackles rose.

"Not only to apologize, but to personally congratulate you."

His mounting tension fell. "What?"

"The huge leap of improvement you've made with Mr. Wayne has been nothing but astounding."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say that-"

"Nonsense! Now I know he has a long road ahead of him, but he's out of his cell and participating in activities and finally taking his meals in the cafeteria with everyone else without incident. His, erm, social skills and whom he chooses to socialize with leaves much to be desired, but I suppose I can only see that as a step in the right direction for him and... Patient J." Her full burgundy lips pursed at this.

"Yes, I, I very much agree," he all but choked out, still thrown at the opposite direction he had expected this conversation to go.

"Your progress reports are so promising that Mr. Pennyworth, despite the latest... hiccup concerning that video, has decided not to remove Mr. Wayne from our care and move him to a different facility."

"That's wonderful news." Perhaps now the numerous calls to his office phone would cease and the thinly-veiled threats from the butler's legal representatives would stop clogging his voicemail. "And what of the lawsuit?"

"Well," Leland paused as her thumb rubbed at the knuckles of her other hand, a habit he found grating. "Considering your good work, they've shifted their attention to finding the actual poster of the video and away from Arkham as a whole."

"That's wonderful. I'm relieved to see that ugly business won't interrupt my work with Bruce."

"So." Leland leaned forward with an almost conspiratorial grin. "Tell me what's your approach been with Mr. Wayne? What's your secret?"

Richard eased back into his chair with an imperious wave of his wrinkled hand. "Oh, there's no secret per se. One just has to have the skill and patience to deal with men, such as Bruce. You know, really approach them at their level as an equal. Show them that you're not going to back down. They're not used to that. You just have to look them in the eye and say-"

"Just can't resist my feminine wiles can you, Batsy?" The Joker giggled as he tripped into the dark and just barely caught himself on a shelf of cleaning supplies. Cheap, individually wrapped rolls of toilet paper rained down around him.

"Shut up," Bruce growled and spun the clown around, a biting kiss finding that god awful smile effortlessly in the dark. It'd been awhile since he'd been in this much absence of light, he couldn't see, but it didn't stop him from squeezing his eyes shut as copper lips pushed back and blood seeped into his mouth.

It was definitely better this way. Made it easier to pretend.

Ragged nails dragging down both sides of his neck and muffled snippets of laughter blowing hot bursts of breath against the wet corner of his mouth made it equally harder to pretend.

Not that he struggled with the illusion for long, reveling in the thrumming pulse of the Joker's neck he'd been eying only moments ago under his tongue and tasting salt and biting down hard hoping to break it open. Tear that vein clean apart and stand calmly in the face of that hot splash of blood and know it was all over when those grating snickers rattled into complete silence.

He shuddered from the brief fantasy.

Strained chuckles sounded before the other man pushed closer into the brutal clamp of teeth as twitchy fingers plucked at the spaces between the fastenings closing the front of the vigilante's Arkham reds before ripping it open and buttons pattered around their feet. Nostrils flared, Bruce was quick to follow suit and level the playing field. It wasn't the clown's jugular, but at this point the static in his brain and the hardness barely restrained by threadbare briefs didn't know the difference.

"What is this, Bats, huh?" the Joker gasped as his hands kneaded at withered muscles. "A, uh, new, experimental approach to the penal code, hm?" He tried to snatch at the other man's waistband, but the Bat caught them in a crushing grip and a voice like a snarling hell hound sliced down his spine like crazed satisfaction.

"Are you complaining?"

Damn if the knave didn't miss that. The small bones of his hand ground together in the other man's hold, and when he opened his mouth he didn't know if words or a happy groan would come spilling out. Luckily, his Bat didn't give him much choice, shoving him to his knees. The Joker's kneecaps cracked as they hit the floor, and he blinked in the gloom at the solid black silhouette hovering over him. He chuckled and tugged at the iron grip forcing his hands up like a prayer.

"Can't, uh, really do much without my hands." He wriggled his bunched fingers, already tingling from lack of circulation.

"No," Bruce barked and yanked the clown's arms higher and trapped them in one large hand. The wrists felt so boney and delicate and so very tempting to break. The other hand parted his uniform more and jerked down the band of his underwear. A relieved huff escaped him as his cock flopped out and slapped back against his stomach. Just the sensation of cool air against the taut hot skin of his erection was overwhelming. He hadn't done much with his dick outside of pissing and perfunctory cleaning. Who would have guessed that when the love of your life and everything else around you crumbling dampens your libido a wee bit?

And it was all this bastard's fault. He glared down at the dull shine of greasy blonde hair and squeezed tighter.

"If I so much as feel a hint of teeth, I'll snap your fingers in half," he threatened.

The cheeky retort was caught in the Joker's throat as the musky smell of his Bat so close to him hit his nostrils. This wasn't really his thing, but he could definitely roll with this, he determined idly, running his tongue along the sharp points of his teeth. The slightest graze of slick skin against the divot that snared his upper lip had him lurching forward, mouth opening and already swallowing.

Bruce's gut clenched violently like he'd been struck as scorching heat literally choked him down. His knees almost buckled, his eyes already falling closed and hips rolling. Beneath the sound of blood rushing in his ears, he could hear lurid slurping and his own grunts filling the small space. It all seemed so loud in the dark.

Needless to say, he didn't last long. His hips were quick to snap forward mindlessly, the head of his cock stabbing the back of the clown's throat over and over again. He could feel the mad man wasn't well practiced in this, uncaring of the ooze of saliva dripping down his sack, which made it all the better; that maybe he was here first and instead of laughter, Bruce was the one to fuck cut-off chokes and gags out of this monster's mouth. The thought of unavoidable tears glistening over wide, dead eyes knocked the air out of him as he came. The head in his grasp jerked back, but he held tight as he groaned and rode it out.

That's when the alarms sounded.

The Joker struggled to breathe around the cock shoved down his throat pulsed and filled his mouth with come, globs of it spilling out and stinging the cuts in and around his mouth. Feeling the hold on him relax, he spat the Bat's dick out with a spiteful graze of teeth. Immediately pain zapped down his arm as his right pinky was yanked out of its socket.

Panting, Bruce glared down at him. His vision slightly adjusting, he could just make out the shiny "O" of a ruined mouth and the barely visible wetness spreading across the crotch of the Joker's uniform.

"You sick son of a bitch," he muttered breathless, thumbing the useless pinky.

With a too pleased groan, the Joker rose to his feet and took his hands back. Bruce let the clammy skin slip away with a mindless caress. Thankfully the clown didn't point it out as he cleared his throat and coughed with a distinct rasp. "Takes one to know one," he replied and popped the finger back in its place with a sharp huff.

Seconds passed after the adrenaline and anger wore off and both enemies were left standing there feeling the other man's presence too close to them and listening to eachother's breathing and the drone of the alarm. Bruce was the first to try to say something, knowing they had to leave this damn closet eventually.

"Listen, I-"

Light and sound flooded the dark space, stinging their eyes.

Guileless green surveyed the tawdry scene before him. His boss and the Bat blinked dumbly at him as they stood chest to chest. Streaks of color -blue, green, red, yellow, purple, black- painted the sweaty skin of their necks and flushed cheeks. Gotham's dark knight with his dick hanging out and the clown prince's swollen red lips, his scars shiny with god only knew. It didn't take a genius to figure out what happened here.

Jonathan wouldn't be the least surprised.

Spencer sighed and looked up and down the hallway, seeing no one. Grimacing at the distinct smell of sex overpowering the ever present bleach, he motioned the pair out. "These alarms not tipping you off?" he spoke loudly. "Lock down's in effect over you two. Let's get moving."

His boss smirked, swiping a thumb around the corner of his mouth and licking up the drop of white he found there, gazing playfully at Spencer. "Stop looking at his dick, Spence," he calmly ordered. His rasp a disconcerting contrast to the high whine of the alarm aching in his ears. Wayne fumbled with his clothing as his face went beet root.

Rearing back, the orderly shook his head in confusion. "I-I wasn't." The hate and disgust he felt for the pair quickly dissipated with the realization he was on his own against men that could easily destroy him individually. In light of his reaction, the Joker burst out into laughter and slapped the vigilante on the chest.

"That was a hoot! Lucky it was you who found us, huh? " He swaggered past with a blood and come-stained smile and a threatening glint in his eye. " Let's, uh, take this back to my place, Batsy."

The Bat looked up from his futile attempts to close a button-less uniform with a pinched face. His expression slackened considerably when he locked eyes on Spencer once again, straightening up and ignoring his own bared torso. Jutting his chin, he scooted past the orderly and stood in the noisy hall, looking around him before heading in the opposite direction the clown was heading.

"Hey!" The Joker grabbed after him. "Where ya goin'?"

Bruce stopped to answer, pausing to study the other man in the glaring light and waiting for that sick knot in his stomach to start pulsing in an acidic bursts. Waiting for the regret and loathing to over power the lull and ease and consume him whole.

Except it didn't come.

Scars sticky with red and traces of his own release framed a dopily grinning mouth as Joker urged him to follow. Darting a look towards the orderly, Bruce leaned in close. "We can't be found together without me beating you to a pulp."

The clown appeared genuinely confused and disappointed at the fact he wasn't automatically going to have a brawl. "And we're not doing that because...?"

"Because Solitary doesn't seem as fun," he replied with a punctuating nip to the other man's earlobe before pulling away and walking fast, avoiding to see the Joker's reaction, content to listen to the rough bark of amusement. The vigilante's sly grin lasted all of forty seconds, because that gross inkling of guilt wasn't taking over and he knew that in of itself was wrong-wrong-wrong.

He turned the nearest corner, making sure he was out of sight, before slamming his back to the wall and sliding downward.

"What did I just do? WhatdidIdowhatdidIdowhatdidIdowhatdidIdo?" over and over again.

He was very much relieved when a wave of orderlies crashed down on him.

TBC

A/N: I'm back-ish. I hope this is alright. I literally just sat down at my computer to finish the last bit of this chapter since some of you have been so patiently waiting. Can you tell I'm not well versed in writing smut? Please tell me what you think but be kind, haha.