Disclaimer: All characters are owned solely by their respective copyright and trademark holders. The author does not own the rights to any of the characters mentioned within. No money has been made from this.

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Crane woke with a start, not sure, at first, where he was. After a few shallow gasps, his surroundings came to the forefront of his senses. The thin, lumpy futon mattress, the chill in the air, the threadbare flannel blanket tucked around his shoulders. He opened his eyes. He was still sleeping on the floor of the abandoned factory he shared with the Joker. He gingerly rolled over, careful not to wake the Joker, who could be very cranky if awakened before his alarm clock went off. But the Joker was not there.

The bathroom door stood open, and a soft light spilled out, illuminating a sliver of rusty, old machinery. Crane pushed the blanket off and hoisted himself up from the mattress. He crept toward the open door, stone floor freezing under his bare feet. He peeked inside. The Joker stood in front of the full-length mirror, an array of makeup laid out on the sink next to him. He was nude except for a pair of plain cotton boxer shorts. Crane's eyes widened. He had never seen the Joker without his makeup, or looking so clean, for that matter. The Joker seemed to take great pains to fix his face behind closed doors.

Crane had imagined the Joker to be a lot more scarred and ugly than he actually was. His torso had a few diagonal scars, old knife wounds, no doubt. His bicep was scarred where a bullet had grazed it. His chest was mostly hairless, save for a small area between his pecs. The Joker turned to retrieve something out of Crane's line of sight when Crane saw the scars across his back. They were not as clean as the knife wounds on his abdomen had been, and were almost flesh-colored, leading Crane to believe they were probably the oldest scars on the Joker's body. Even older than the Chelsea grin, which was still captivating even in its natural form.

Crane could hardly believe anyone had ever had the upper hand on the Joker long enough to inflict those particular scars, but the proof was continuously before his eyes. Crane longed to know the real story behind the scars, both on a personal and an academic level. The Joker would have made a fascinating case, but for now, Crane had to make due with having a fascinating business partner. Is that what they were? Crane wondered sometimes, when he woke up to the feel of the Joker pressed against his back, strong arm wrapped around his torso. It was cold in the factory, after all.... He wondered about it when he looked up from his breakfast, or from a flask of toxin he was preparing, or from the Gotham Times, and caught the Joker watching him with just the tiniest of non-painted-on smiles. The Joker was just a man, after all. And really, Crane thought as he studied him in his unguarded form, a normal-looking man, even handsome. Or at least used to be. No, still was. He must have struggled when they cut his face, producing that errant cut on his bottom lip. How many men had to hold him down? He wondered if any of them were still alive.

The Joker turned again and lit the cigar he'd been searching for moments earlier. He took a few puffs, watching himself in the mirror the whole time, then stepped to the side to use the toilet. Crane felt as if he should look away, but was instead riveted by the sight of the Joker's penis. It was a normal-looking penis, circumsized, no sores, no inflammation. He bit his lip. The Joker would surely be angry to find him watching. He should get back to bed before he was discovered.

The Joker flicked ash into the toilet. "Having fun, doc?"

Crane's heart thudded against his ribcage. "I have to use the bathroom."

"You've been standing there for ten minutes." The Joker let the cigar hang between his lips as he flushed the toilet and washed his hands in the sink.

Crane said nothing. He hoped his death would be quick and painless, but knew a quick and painless death was not the Joker's forte. The Joker finally turned toward the doorway. "Well, go on, use the bathroom."

Crane was rooted to the spot. "With you in there?"

"You just watched me take a piss, and now I don't get to watch you?"

Crane swallowed hard, cheeks flushing with humiliation. He stepped into the bathroom and brushed past the Joker to stand in front of the toilet. The Joker flicked ash into the sink, watching Crane with a bemused smile.

Crane did not look at him, instead reaching into his pajamas for his cock. He tried to concentrate on urinating, but could feel the Joker's eyes on him. He bit his lip, trying not to further betray his discomfort.

"Heh heh."

Crane glanced at the ceiling. Come on, come on, come on.... Finally, he managed.

The Joker laughed longer and louder. "Good show, Doctor Crane. What are you going to do for an encore?"

Crane clenched his jaw, finally turning to face the Joker. "Listen--" He stopped short, eyes dropping down to see the Joker rubbing his erection through his boxer shorts. "You're sick."

"Am I? You're the one who gets off on--"

"Shut up."

The Joker arched his brow. "I hardly think you're in a position to tell me what to do." He took a few steps toward Crane, backing him up against the wall. He grabbed Crane's hand and pressed it into the bulge in his underwear. He flicked ash onto Crane's forearm. "Since you're so interested in my dick, why don't you have a closer look?"

Crane didn't know where to focus his eyes. He certainly couldn't look down at that, but he didn't like seeing the Joker's face so up-close and personal. The Joker had a clear complexion, rugged jawline, brown eyes that danced with mischief. He found a freckle on the Joker's chest and focused his gaze there. The Joker jerked him closer by his wrist. "Look at me." His cigar singed the hair on Crane's arm. Crane looked into his eyes. "Are you afraid, Scarecrow? Don't be. All you gotta do is suck my cock and all's forgiven."

Crane swallowed hard.

"I'm a man of my word." He let go of Crane's arm and took his place in front of the mirror again, dropping his cigar into the sink.

Crane stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Well? Get over here. Kneel." Crane did as he was told, cold tile unforgiving against his kneecaps. "I don't have all day. I've got places to go."

The Joker picked up one of the tubes from the sink and squeezed some greasepaint onto his fingertips. Crane steeled himself and slid his hand into the Joker's shorts. His cock was velvety smooth and rock-hard. Crane pulled it out and glanced up at the Joker, who was staring intently into the mirror. He gave the head of his cock an experimental lick. It was salty and a little musky, like any man's. Crane felt a little relieved. He began the blowjob in earnest, looking up at the Joker from time to time, but never once caught the Joker looking back at him. The familiar pattern of face paint emerged quickly. When he was done, the Joker grabbed the edge of the sink with one hand. His hips rolled ever so slightly in time with Crane's strokes. "You like it, don't you, Slutcrow?"

Crane didn't respond, but felt that his own erection poking out of his pajamas was enough of an answer.

"Stop," the Joker growled. Crane pulled his lips off the Joker's shaft, sucking lightly to the very tip, then sat back on his heels. The Joker grabbed the back of Crane's head with one hand, rubbing his cock with the other.

Crane closed his eyes, bracing himself for what was to come.

The Joker ejaculated against Crane's lips. Crane felt the hot bursts of semen drip down his chin and onto his chest. The Joker came and came and came, finally pulling away with a soft grunt and releasing his grip on Crane's hair. Crane opened his eyes.

The Joker's finger, smeared with greasepaint, hovered in front of his face. "You're mine." He dipped into the semen on Crane's chin and smeared it on Crane's cheeks in an imitation of his own scars. "Freak."

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