Two-Way Mirror

One-Shot

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

The drumming of fingers spilled from the hidden microphone, echoing in otherwise silent room. It seemed to have a pattern to it; as if tapping a song or a tune that only the source could hear.

To anyone passing by, the viewing-room would appear to be empty save a slumped figure snoring peacefully in a beaten office chair. The room was darkened, only lit up but the alert cameras that monitored the room next-door. Indeed, at first glance, the room would look completely empty. One would have to look hard to see the sleeping Detective, snoozing at his post. But one would have to strain they're eyes and peer into the darkened corner to see the other occupant of the room; a figure clouded in shadows as black as the clothing he wore.

A slight snore broke the silence from the slumbering cop, ignoring his post to catch a few minutes sleep before he had to greet the day and all of its savagery. The dark figure spared Gotham's finest a look for a moment, noticing the dark circles under the man's eyes; the weary lines of stress that made the face appear much older than it really was.

Regular men should not have to sit here, night after night to keep an eye on the beast in the room beyond. Men like them should be able to call it a day after they're shift was over and be able to go home to they're families, or what was left of them in this god-forsaken city. Happy, functional homes were becoming hard to find, something that made the good people despair and the bad people prosper. Misery enjoys company.

The room would normally be more crowded, with more security to prevent any escape attempts the man in the cell might try to pull. He was deadly dangerous, the most feared and wanted criminal ever to grace the streets of Gotham. However, the rest of the On-Duty Guards were otherwise occupied with a small explosion on the far side of the building, letting many of those in the waiting cells to be released. The police force had been quick to respond though, and began the daunting task of rounding up the fleeing criminals. Few to none would escape, but they wouldn't go down without putting up a fight.

Thinking this was a plot to try to break a certain madman out of his holding cell, Gotham's Most Hated Man was quickly moved to an interrogation cell, much more secure than the open barred cells on the other side of the building. A few guards were left in charge; one in the viewing room to monitor the man's movements, the doors that led to the general area.

However, there seemed to be little need to guard the man at all. There was no attempts at resisting, no pacing, no sarcastic comments, no singing, no breakout attempts. Just that rhythmic, hypnotizing tapping. It was little wonder the guard fell asleep. The cloaked figure himself had to resist closing his eyes as well.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Again came the drumming of fingers through the microphone. It put the shadowed figure in a state of unease at the sound, for reasons he could not understand. It seemed… obscene that such a normal act of boredom should come from such a vile creature, which could hardly even be called a human.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Black gloved hands curled into fists at the repetitive noise, now taking on a slightly new pattern, as if starting yet another tune. They curled into fists because if they weren't otherwise occupied, they would wrap around the source of the tapping and strangle it.

The source sat in the brightly lit room beyond, eyes closed and seemingly asleep, if not for the constant drumming on the cold metal table. The stark-white face seemed to blend in with the bright room but for the tangled, stringy green hair, blackened eyes, and hideous red smile. That same smile that had been carved on innocent citizens the night before. The mouth that was forever smiling. It was disgusting, intriguing, and horrifying all at once, which only made the man a more bizarre image to behold. The clothing was custom, a faded patterned green shirt, a tattered yellow vest that once looked to be made of a very fine velvet (though it was now singed and torn). The trousers that used to be a bright purple were now covered in soot and burn-marks. Dark brown shoed feet were kicked up onto the table, resting comfortably as if there was nothing to be concerned about.

The figure clothed in shadows stared at the Clown Prince of Crime, more commonly known as The Joker, a mass-murdering criminal and a madman, whose crimes went beyond shocking in both numbers and cruelty. The same clown who's death toll ranked the highest in Gotham, the clown who had killed fourteen and hospitalized dozens of others that very day when he had set fire to an elementary school full of innocent children.

That vile, disgusting creature had been found in the science classroom, surrounded by five 4th graders who slumped lifelessly in they're desks, their mouths oozing blood from the carved smiles the Joker had etched into they're faces. The man had been 'teaching' his class when the G.P.D burst the door down and arrested him, ignoring the insane cackles that escaped the mad-man's own carved mouth.

The act of putting the Joker in the interrogation cell served two purposes. One was to prevent his escape, and the other was to prevent his murder. The reason for the explosion was still unknown, as the police force had been too busy rounding up the escaping criminals and trying to get medical help for their fallen comrades. It was all too possible that a parent of one of the children had come to get revenge. It had certainly happened before, though the Clown had survived each time.

The shadowed figure found himself glaring at the relaxed figure beyond the two-way mirror, recalling all of the crimes the scum had committed. All those deaths, all those injuries, all because one man wanted to laugh. It was disgusting.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap---

The tapping ceased suddenly, and the figure's eyes carefully watched as The Joker's mouth opened and the frantic tongue darted out, licking the painted lips slowly, as if tasting something delicious. The tongue wetted the cracked skin and prodded at the curved scars on both sides of his mouth. The closed eyes twitched slightly as the man shifted in the uncomfortable seat, stretching out further. A content sigh drifted from the man's throat, raw and almost deep enough to be a moan. The hands that had been drumming began to move leisurely, cuffs rattling slightly as they traveled from the desk towards the slim, purple clothed legs. The long fingers toyed with the fabric, stroking it sensually, memorizing the texture with his fingertips. They traced circles and other patterns into the material as they began to move, bit-by-bit past the knee…

The darkened figure's back stiffened in response to this unpredictable turn of events. The Joker was an unpredictable man. He wanted nothing, had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. He was a loose cannon, taking out anything and everything he could. This was a man who wanted nothing more than to laugh and the only way to laugh was to put a bullet in someone's skull. A dangerously skilled genius that had no morals or qualms or motivations beyond getting attention, no matter how it affected others. He was insanity at its worst.

The figure had seen it all from this beast of a man. He had fought with him frequently and one quickly learned what passed for normal for this creature. The laughing, the cruel jokes, the jabs, the acts… the figure was swiftly growing accustomed to these antics and how to deal with them.

This though… this was different.

In his line of work, one had to expect the unexpected. Surprises were always around every corner and more often than not, they were wielding explosives or knives or toxic chemicals. You had to be quick with your mind and just as quick on your feet. The Joker was chaos in human form, and he could change his personality so quickly that it left one reeling. He could go from a psychotic mass-murderer to a playful clown performing card tricks. It was never the same Joker he faced time and time again. There was always something changed about him. The figure clothed in black expected this and reacted accordingly.

It seemed, though, that the clown still had a few cards up his sleeves.

The fingers were scratching gently against the fabric of his pants, making swirled patterns into the cloth ever-so-lightly. The Joker's pale, thin hands moved upwards, unrushed, savoring the moment, past the knee and up the leg, brushing the inner thigh just barely. Each movement was methodical and calm and calculated. The painted mouth curled up into a small smile, not a grin or a smirk, but a tiny self-satisfied twist of the lips. The scars made it look hideously wide.

The dark figure narrowed his eyes, glaring at the clown who seemed to be entirely unaware of his audience. What was the man doing? Had the cops missed a weapon of some sort? Was the Joker trying to seem innocent by reaching for it? Perhaps it was one of the many concealed lock picks that always seemed to be hidden on him. The Joker was always a walking armory, not limiting storage to his clothing. Arkham Asylum had found a lock pick buried in the man's leg once. It was quite possible that this was the same situation.

Well if the clown thought he was going to get out of his little cell, he had another thing coming. The dark figure wasn't going to move from this spot until Commissioner Gordon returned from the criminal-roundup.

Joker was raking his fingernails across the inside of his thigh, slowly and gently. Perhaps he was searching for some secreted item and trying not to alert the guards of his actions. Surely there was a reason for his movements, so unknown agenda. The clown shifted, the tongue darting out erratically, wetting the lips and prodding the mangled scars. The handcuffs rattled slightly as the hands moved upwards, onto the groin.

The shadowed figure frowned, half out of suspicion and half out of confusion. What was he doing? The guards hadn't stripped-searched him, only given him a quick pat down, and they had likely ignored the groin. What man would conceal bladed objects there? But now he wasn't so sure. A normal person wouldn't make use of the area, but this was hardly a normal man, and he just might be insane enough to do something like that.

The figure leaned forward a bit, focusing his attention completely on the man in the Interrogation Room. He tried to spot any glint of metal that would give away the presence of a weapon.

The hands were rubbing the bulge in the front of his trousers as if searching for something. So his suspicions had been proven correct, and there was a hidden item there. A slight whimper escaped the clown's lips. The figure twitched, angrily, his senses on edge. So the clown was having trouble finding the object, whatever it was. Good. So very carefully, those fingers massaged his groin, meticulous and thorough.

The hands moved up, only to slide down again, disappearing beneath the waistband of the purple trousers. The action had been swift and sharp, but still so controlled. If he had blinked, he would have missed it.

There seemed to be a brief struggle, as the man shifted in the seat, uncomfortably, spreading his legs wider. The dark figure half expected him to pull out one of the impossibly sharp knives that he always had on his person. One of the closed eyes twitched, and the painted lips curved into a slight grimace. Perhaps he had stabbed himself?

And then, surprisingly, The Joker let out a long, deep, throaty moan, filled with longing, need, and… lust.

The figure froze.

He wasn't…That was below him, even for the Clown Prince of Crime. Even for the man who lacked any morals. No… he couldn't be!

He was.

There was no weapons or knives or concealed dangers on his person. Or at least not there. Those whimpers that he had mistaken for frustrated sighs were from need, not irritation. The careful prodding and rubbing hadn't been to find a hidden lock pick. It had been to get him in the mood.

The Joker was making no attempt at being silent now, his throat releasing deep and breathless pants. His chest was heaving and a faint shine of sweat was on his brow. From the movement of the man's arms, it seemed his hands were hard at work, massaging and grinding at himself. His narrow hips were thrusting up to meet his movements. Eyebrows were knitted in concentration.

The shadow clothed figure could feel a rising heat that started from his neck and slowly started to travel to his cheeks and ears. An uncomfortable fire began to burn in the pit of his abdomen. He clenched his hands, trying to regain his self-control. This was the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime. The man who had destroyed an elementary school. Not some supermodel spreading her legs on a bed.

And yet, when that tongue darted out to moisten the lips, and when those lips were nibbled on by the yellowed teeth, and those little whimpering-moans escaped, the dark figure found his mind drew a complete blank. It was as if he knew exactly what the man had done and the lives he had taken, but the emotion that went with this knowledge was completely gone.

And that jaw working, mouthing silent pleas into the empty room, was the only thing he could focus on. The thoughts of high-body counts and carved smiles faded from his thoughts and instead, all he could see was the fast, desperate motions of the Jokers hands.

The figure took in a deep shuddering breath, feeling overwhelmingly hot as if he had just run miles without pause. He was leaning on the wall of the dark Viewing-Room, his needs starting to feel shaky.

No, he needed to get control over himself…

"Oooh!"

His groin seemed to light on fire at that, and he knew this was one battle he couldn't fight. If only he could make himself leave, but the door seemed to be so far away. Funny, how the room had looked so small earlier.

The Joker had him mesmerized. The green-haired head tossed from left to right, thrashing about in pleasure, desperate for release. Groans bubbled up from the chest and escaped those bruised lips. Eyes were rolling wildly beneath their lids.

"Oooh fuck…"

The dark figure's body was responding to the movements of the man in the room beyond him, his member hardening to its full length, straining against the Kevlar that protected it. For once, he wished he hadn't had so much armor on. It was handy for being shot at or stabbed at, but to deal with a painful erection, it was a very unpleasant inconvenience.

He bit down on his lip, closing his eyes as he listened to the clown's voice filtering over the speakers. For a moment, he wanted to barge into the room take those handcuffs off (Or perhaps leave them on, for added excitement), and finish the job himself…

"Oh fuck! Ahh… fuck me…!"

Oh god yes…

"Oooooh…"

He almost wanted to tell the man to be quiet, so as to not wake the sleeping security guard. The moans were becoming high-pitched and shrill. Obviously, release was close.

"Aaaah! Ah! Batman!!"

Batman's eyes snapped open, a feeling of cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

The Joker was limp in the chair, his forehead shining with sweat, and the exposed skin of his neck was pleasantly flushed. His hand withdrew from the waistband of his trousers, handcuffs rattling against each other. The chest beneath the dress-shirt and waistcoat was heaving from the orgasm, sharp breaths escaping those painted lips and filtering through the speakers.

Batman's arousal was fast fading, replaced by something similar to disgust, self-revulsion, and nausea. His face, he was sure, was draining of all color.

Oh god, what had he done…? He had gotten aroused by such a vile, twisted creature. His most hated, despised enemy. The one person he had ever been tempted to break his one rule for. The same person who haunted his nightmares, night after night, killing all those he loved and cared about, carving smiles on their faces. The one man who had ruined so much of what Bruce Wayne called a life. And with a few simple moans and strokes from the damn clown, and Batman was practically salivating and ready for action of a less heroic kind.

It was repulsive.

A dangerous flush began to spread into his neck and cheeks once more, though this time, it was out of pure, raw rage. To be used like this, for that clowns sick little game. Manipulated. And he had played into the trap like a moron. Dangerous weapons indeed!

He glared in fury at the Joker, who was just recovering from the aftershocks of his release. He hated that man, but more than anything, at that moment, he hated himself.

The painted lips began to curve slowly, twisting and trembling at the corner, turning upwards into a smile. That smile grew, causing the scars to stretch and the smile to grow into a smirk. And as the clown's body began to shake, the mouth curved even higher to form a deadly, warped grin.

"Heh…" The Joker began, his thin frame trembling. Batman gritted his teeth together, causing his jaw to ache. "Aheheheh…"

The Dark figure pushed away from the wall, staring so furiously at The Joker through the two-way mirror, that he wouldn't be surprised if the clown felt the force of it. If he did, he was either ignoring it or feeding off it. The snickers and dark giggling grew slightly louder and slightly more unrestrained. The dam would burst soon.

Oh how he wanted to strangle that man. To see his face grow wide with panic, that disgusting grin contorting into a pleading grimace.

He took a deep, steadying breath.

Someday, they would get into a fight and one of them wouldn't walk away. Someday, one of them would stop breathing. Someday, one of them wouldn't get up.

Someday…

But not today.

Batman turned, his cloak swirling about him dramatically. He made it to the doors leading out into the main hall just as the clown couldn't control himself any longer.

"BWAAHAAHAAHAAHAA!!"

The Security Guard was jolted out of his sleep by the screeching laughter, his face paling as he spotted the clown, rolling on the ground, clutching his stomach from the force of his cackles. He struggled to free the radio from his belt, desperate for backup and trying hard to ignore the ear-shattering amusement that was blaring through the speakers.

If he had been watching closely, he would have noticed that despite the giggling and side-splitting chuckles, the Clown Prince of Crime's vivid green eyes were wide open and quite clear, not filled with tears of mirth like the volume of his laughter indicated. But as it was, he was too busy shouting into his radio for help.

The Joker's eyes were filled with a calm, serene satisfaction.

Authors Note: So, I started this little one-shot over three months ago, but then had an awful case of writers block. It took ages to get over, but now I think I am back in the swing of things! I do hope so, as I very much miss writing. I had written everything up until the Joker sliding his hands past his knee, when I was struck with a blank, and I abandoned this little story. But just this night, I was laying in bed, thinking about all my unfinished projects, and was hit with the urge to finish this one.

And here we are!

I do hope I kept Batman in character (as much as you can, in this situation, at least). He is such a pain to write for; all wound up and serious like that. He really needs to lighten up. But truly, I think there is some extreme sexual tension between the Joker and him. I figured that Joker would have noticed it from the beginning and would use that as a weapon against our poor costumed hero.

Anywho, comments, feedback, and constructive criticism are always welcome. I shall be writing more Batman stories, and should have some out soon.

Ta!

-Alex
(Alexandra-the-Great91)