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Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. How could he have been so stupid? So careless? On paper, everything looked clean. He hadn’t suspected a thing. And that young woman had seemed so sincere, so confident in his success that— that… YES. He’d let himself be tempted. Let himself be fooled. It was supposed to be just four nights at a café-theatre in Gotham. A well-frequented place, they’d told him. All you have to do is leave a deposit (which will be returned at the end, Mr. Doe), and wait for the world to come to you (with a bit of luck, you might even sell out on opening night). But how could he ever have thought people would come see him? In that damn comedy club, tucked away in the seediest part of Gotham!? He just wanted to— He simply wanted to— Oh, whatever. Maybe he really was only good at failing... A laugh slipped from his lips. He shouldn't think like that. That’s what Dr. Leland kept telling him during their weekly sessions.
"Think, think… Think," he hissed between his teeth, pacing around his room.
He wasn’t living just anywhere, no. He was still a mess, yes, but a mess who lived at Wayne Manor (no less!). Fancy. Luxury life. He still wasn’t sure about what exactly he had with Bruce. Still not certain it was real. That he wasn’t just imagining all of this from the bottom of his cell at Arkham (and one day he’d wake up, and the crash would be brutal). But the days kept passing, and he didn’t wake up alone (well… not always alone, to be exact). And now— now he was going to screw it all up, wasn’t he? He couldn’t always count on his boyfriend-best friend-sidekick to fix every single one of his personal screwups. He had to start taking responsibility. Getting himself out of trouble on his own (without resorting to violence). Still, the urge to burn the comedy club to the ground had crossed his mind at least a hundred times over the past two days.
Because nothing had gone the way it was supposed to.
It was supposed to give him a fresh start — something to keep him busy, now that Bruce had hung up the cape and the whole “becoming the Joker again” was off the table for good. So he was looking for something to do. A way to move on. It had been over two years now, but the memories still shook him whenever they resurfaced. And deep down, he still wasn’t sure he deserved Bruce. So, yeah… This whole comedy club thing? It was also his way of proving that he was trying. Trying to fit in. Trying to find his path.
The first night, a few people had shown up. Just enough to give John hope. Enough to light a spark in him. When he came back to the manor that night, still shivering from the taste of the stage — from the spotlight, the eyes fixed on him, the laughter rising in place of his own (so nervous, so tight in his chest he sometimes thought it might burst) — he had thrown himself into Bruce’s arms. Kissed him with fierce passion. There was such joy radiating from him, such confidence, that Bruce probably hadn’t had the heart to ask too many questions.
But the second night… that’s when things started to fall apart.
There were more people in the audience (which should have been a good thing, right?). But those people… they had cold eyes. Eyes that gleamed with something mean, something cruel. The laughter wasn’t warm. And in the middle of one of his lines, John realized — They weren’t laughing with him. They weren’t laughing because of what he said, or how he said it. They were laughing at him. A mockery more chilling than all of Freeze’s tech combined. A disdain sharper than any of Zsasz’s finest blades. A weapon — that’s what he wished he had. Something to shove down those laughing throats, something to give them a real reason to smile (forever). A violent impulse. One he didn’t act on. He simply left the stage, fists clenched, shoulders sagging, eyes empty, fFeeling stripped down, powerless. (Oh, what he wouldn’t have given to tear that feeling out of himself. A burst of violence, any burst of violence. But he’d made a promise — to Bruce, and to Dr. Leland.)
He had stayed in the city for a long time that night, perched on the roof of a building, watching the lights scatter like fireflies along the edge of an endless river. He came back at dawn, pale and hollow, and collapsed into bed without running into Bruce. Bruce, who had been trying to reach him all morning. Bruce, with that controlled voice — falsely calm, as if trying not to scare him off. John couldn’t stand it. He wasn’t some fragile thing, he wasn’t a ticking time bomb!! By late afternoon, they stood face to face, tense, like two dogs baring teeth. But worry won out. Bruce softened eventually, asked if something had upset him — or disturbed him. John just shrugged. Said it was nothing.
It had been two years, yes. But trust… trust was a hard thing to recover once it had been broken. John was trying to trust Bruce (he’s not going to reject you again, he’s not going to lie to you again), but it was hard convincing himself that all his fears wouldn’t become real — again. And Bruce, on his side, was probably wrestling with the same doubts. John Doe — the mistake that nearly cost him everything. The Joker — a forced sidekick who only brought trouble. The Joker, who had killed people despite a very simple code. John had crossed so many lines, and yet (and yet) here he was. In recovery (again).
So John, for whom trust was everything he wished he could give to Bruce, had said nothing to him. Perhaps out of shame. But mostly out of fear. What if, in the end, Bruce started to despise him too? What if he started mocking him? What if he became like those people who, mouths agape, had openly laughed at him, at what he thought was a natural talent? John Doe was a rather ambivalent person. On the surface, sure of his tastes, his style, his choices, yet extremely nervous, filled with doubts, and a desperate desire to please.
But he didn’t please.
Outside of Arkham, everything was once again too bright. Too big. Too vast. He felt overwhelmed by everything around him. Like a shipwrecked soul struggling to keep his head above water, nearly drowning at every moment, where each breath was another fleeting second of life (and maybe the last).
He had asked the woman in charge to break the contract. He had asked her to return his money. She had laughed in his face (too). Break a contract just like that? Yeah, right! If he wanted to stop, then she would keep his money. It was the height of irony to see a comedian complain about a packed venue and smiling faces.
On the third night, he hadn’t performed. He had lost part of the money he had earned from the previous nights. It wasn’t really about the money (even though he had very little). It was about...
"Good evening, Mr. Doe," Alfred greeted him politely at the entrance to the manor.
The butler had eventually gotten used to him (and maybe even liked him). Tonight, however, his tone was reserved, a bit cold, like someone too polite to say what they really thought. And that hurt. Because John really liked Alfred! John gave him a small wave before sneaking inside, determined to lock himself in his room. Alfred stopped his little act.
"Master Bruce is waiting for you in the kitchen."
John froze and hesitated for a moment. His shoulders shook with a small laugh, and he muttered, "Ugh. He always has to meddle in everything, huh?"
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Eh— Nothing, nothing, buddy! Thanks."
John disappeared into the kitchen. Bruce was there, his back to him, arms crossed. John stayed in the doorway, anxious. There was tension in his boyfriend-best friend-former sidekick’s shoulders. A tension he was responsible for and didn’t know how to interpret.
"Hiii Brucie," he tried to say with a clear voice. He didn’t like playing a role. Harley sometimes made him play a role. He never really liked it. He liked being... Himself. But who was he, exactly, huh?
"John." Bruce turned toward him. His eyebrows were furrowed with worry, but his tone was soft enough to slightly relax John. "Hey. I was waiting for you to eat, if you’re hungry."
"Uh."
John’s eyes slid toward the table where his favorite meal was waiting (tacos and a milkshake!). For a moment, everything seemed normal again around him. He sat down enthusiastically at the table. It was the hesitation in the air, Bruce's attitude, that immediately killed his appetite. He let his head fall limply into the crook of his hand.
"Actually, uh—I'm not very hungry."
"Is... everything okay?"
"Hm? Yeah."
"John..."
"What?" he asked defensively. He didn't like the paternal tone Bruce was starting to use. He straightened up and looked his boyfriend-best friend-former sidekick directly in the eyes. "I haven't killed anyone!" he exclaimed. (Not yet!) a mischievous little voice inside him wanted to add.
This sudden declaration seemed to take Bruce by surprise. He blinked slightly and raised his hands a little to calm the tone of the conversation. John crossed his arms, as if to protect himself.
"Wow, okay, fine. I didn’t accuse you of anything, John. I’m just worried."
"Oh, yeah? Ha! Everything's fine. I just... hm... have some things on my mind. I walk around to... clear them out."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
Bruce clearly looked lost, and John would have liked to give him an explanation. But then, what? Oh, John knew exactly what would follow! Pity. Because he was pitiful! Before continuing with his gloomy thoughts, John stood up and waved his hand. When he was in this state of mind, he just wanted to isolate himself. This happened often. It was easier at the asylum. All it took was looking violent to be put in isolation. Here, well... the rules were different, weren't they? Nothing was that simple. He collapsed on the bed in his room.
So, John couldn’t talk to Bruce. Because he had been stupid. Stupid to sign. Stupid to give away such a sum of money. Stupid to believe he could do something with his life. Stupid to think he could please complete strangers. Stupid. STUPID!
"John?" called a familiar voice from behind the door of his room (a guest room). He considered it his own, separate from the one he usually shared with Bruce lately. It was his little ha-hacienda number two. A place where he could retreat when he needed to be alone, to feel safe within four walls.
"Are... you sure everything’s okay?" Bruce’s voice insisted.
LEAVE ME ALONE! he wanted to scream. Instead, John let out a light sigh. He wasn't ready to face Bruce. Not ready to lie to him again. There was only one night left, right? And he could simply not show up, even if that meant losing his deposit. Deep down, it wasn’t really about the money (even though they would inevitably ask him where such an amount had gone, because of course they checked his accounts). And when they looked into it closely, well... They’d end up discovering the whole truth. They’d know that John Doe was just a failure, fit to go back to Arkham, because he would never succeed at anything, anything, anything, ANYTH—
“John.”
A hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality.
He hadn't realized that he had started hyperventilating. His breathing was erratic, and an unpleasant pressure was tightening his chest. He hadn't even realized that Bruce had entered. The sudden contact felt like a burn, like being exposed, like an intrusion into his privacy. With a sudden, almost violent movement, he stepped back several paces. He felt cornered, trapped. Why wouldn’t Bruce leave him alone? Why did he burden himself with him? Why didn’t he just drop him off at Arkham again? Why?
"Sorry," Bruce mumbled, suddenly looking very awkward, lost, unsure of what to do.
A faint grunt escaped from John’s lips as he turned to face the wall, the final attempt to hide his patheticness. He felt worthless, miserable, useless, insignificant. He was. He would never find his place. All of this was pointless. His chest heaved with a painful breath, and he struggled to reason, to think clearly. He just wanted... to hit something. Burn something. Ah! The Wayne mansion would look pretty bad, all charred up, wouldn’t it? That guilty thought forced a small sarcastic laugh from him. His fingers pulled his hair back. Of course, he would never do that to Bruce. But it didn’t stop him from imagining it.
"John, let me help you... please."
The last word was like a magic spell. A sincere, desperate, honest plea. John crouched in front of the wall, his hair still pulled back between his fingers. He took a deep breath. The words escaped his lips, harsher, meaner, than he would have wanted:
"I was stupid, but you already knew that."
A silence, then:
"You’re a lot of things, John, but you're not stupid."
"HA! ... Yeah. Spoiler alert: I’m stupid, apparently."
A frustrated sigh escaped John's lips.
"... Leave me alone, Bruce."
No "Brucie." No "buddy." Just a raw, joyless name, without emphasis.
“On one condition,” Bruce replied before adding, “That once you're calm, you’ll come find me. I promised I’d help you when you got out of Arkham, John. And you promised to let me help you.”
“Because you're so good at keeping promises, huh?” Words he immediately regretted. A crushing fear instantly twisted his stomach. He turned abruptly toward Bruce, eyes wide. The damage was done, right? Bruce was doing his best, but he looked hurt. John tugged at his hair once again. “STUPID! That’s not what—”
“It’s okay, John. I deserved it, I guess,” he cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you alone. But come see me after, okay?”
He didn’t ask him to promise this time, but just before closing the door, John hurriedly said anyway:
“Pinky swear.”
He caught a flicker on Bruce’s face (a small smile), then the door closed. John collapsed onto the bed. At least he hadn’t started suggesting calling Dr. Leland. He had done that once. John hadn’t taken it too well. "You don’t even trust me to make my own decisions, do you?" He had said something like that. He squeezed his pillow in his arms, since there was nothing else, and his eyes landed on a newspaper article he always kept hidden in his sheets, here. Bruce Wayne, smiling for the press. His playboy smile, the millionaire mask he put on when leaving here. A different face from the one John knew.
It was with that softer thought that he managed to find sleep.
When he woke up the next day, it was already past noon. Yet, he didn’t feel any more rested than the day before, nor any better. He would have gladly stayed in that room forever. But he had to get up, drink some water, eat something. That kind of things. And tonight... His stomach tightened. He felt like throwing up. Tonight was the last time, but he wasn’t sure if he had the courage to get back on stage just to have them mock him again. And then there was Bruce. He had to talk to Bruce. Fuck. He grabbed his purple bathrobe, lined with green, and descended the stairs like a condemned man. When he entered the kitchen, he found Alfred busy making toast. John froze in place, hesitated for a moment, then took a few steps forward. The butler gave him a look John couldn’t quite read. He waved his hand.
“Hey, buddy...!” he muttered.
“Good morning, Mr. Doe.”
“Hey, you know... Call me John,” he shrugged. “It’s not like Doe is my real name... John either, now that I think about it. Ha!”
“John,” Alfred said again.
“Yeah, that’s it, you’re on the right track, Alfredoo.”
“Hm. I’d prefer Alfred, if you don’t mind.”
“Right. Sorry. Alfred, buddy.”
John sat down on a chair. Alfred’s company wasn’t unpleasant. And he seemed less... fake than the night before. That was something, right?
"I know what's going on, John, you know," Alfred added casually. John froze.
"You... do?"
"Yes. I've been managing Mr. Wayne's accounts for a long time, and yours have been added to his."
"Right," John said flatly.
Great. Had he talked to Bruce about it? Of course! He must have told Bruce!
"And you should talk to Mr. Wayne."
"Wait, you— Didn’t tell him anything?"
"It's not my place to do so," Alfred said, raising an eyebrow. "If I may say so: Mr. Bruce cares... a lot about you. He’s worried about your well-being."
Alfred placed a plate of toast in front of John – though John hadn’t asked for any. He stared at it for a long time, his fingers playing with the crumbs that had fallen into the plate.
"What if..." John muttered. "What if he mocks me?"
"Do you really think he’ll mock you?"
"...Okay. What if he feels pity? I mean, he wouldn’t be wrong to find me pathetic, ha. But... I really tried to do my best. I wanted it to be a surprise, and all. But it feels like I can’t do anything right."
"You make him happy, in your own way. And, believe me, you’re the first person to truly manage that."
"Really?" John asked, lifting his head, his eyes shining with a glimmer of hope. "Is that true?"
"Yes, John. I couldn’t tell you why, or even how, but you give him what he’s long been looking for: a little peace."
Against his chest, John’s heart started pounding. Really? He devoured the toast without thinking too much about what he was doing before jumping up and hugging Alfred, who, visibly uncomfortable, just patted his back. John chuckled.
"If you want to talk to him, he's in his office right now. He decided to work from the manor, just in case you'd like to speak with him..."
John nodded. So, this was the time to make things right, huh? Fine. Yes. John could do this. He nodded again and headed toward the stairs, only to stop and turn his head toward Alfred.
"Alfred? Uuh... Thanks."
He slipped away and climbed the stairs leading to Bruce's office. Once in front of the door, he stopped, hesitating, his fist raised to knock. Several seconds passed. Then minutes. He couldn’t decide. URGH. Why!? Why did it feel like everything was falling apart? Why couldn’t he just knock? Pride? Ego? Fear? He gritted his teeth and forced himself to knock three times against the wood. He immediately heard a noise from the other side of the wall, and the door quickly opened.
"You look like shit, buddy," greeted John. It was true. Bruce looked pale, his hair messy. He was dressed well, as usual, but the dark circles under his eyes made him look the same as he had two years ago when they first met, and Bruce had been playing double agent in their group. "Aaaaanyway. Are you busy?"
"No, you wanna come in?"
The answer was immediate. John nodded, extremely nervous. His fingers fidgeted with the belt of his robe. He took a deep breath and stepped into the room.
"I... made a mistake," he finally said without looking at Bruce, his eyes glued to the windows that looked outside. Bruce didn’t say anything and simply sat in his chair, hands clasped under his chin. He waited for John to continue. John sat across from Bruce and began playing with some of the office supplies on the desk.
"It was really just to prove to myself that I could live outside of Arkham, you know? Everything is so... difficult out there. There are no rules, you know? I feel like... like a free electron. Like I’m on a big ride without a seatbelt. Hehe, maybe it would be a funny experience but... a deadly one, you know? So... yeah, not a fun experience after all. And I wanted... I wanted to show you that I could do some good things. But... I was stupid."
"I told you yesterday, you're a lot of things, but not stupid," Bruce said, his voice soft and reassuring. John wanted to believe him, to hold on to that. He gripped an stapler tightly in his hand.
"Yeah... I... I signed a contract with a comedy club."
Bruce’s face showed genuine surprise. John shot him a quick glance before looking away again.
“Yeeah, surprising, huh? As if I could’ve made it, anyway!”
“John. That’s not what I thought. I didn’t know you wanted to get on stage – now.”
“Hmpf,” John bit his tongue to avoid snapping back. Because I’m too unstable, right? That’s it? He slouched against the desk, his head resting on his arms. “I thought I was making them laugh, but actually, they were just making fun of me. And I don’t go back, I lose the deposit I made. And it’s like… a lot of money.”
There. It was said. John straightened up suddenly and clapped his hands together.
“Well. You probably have other things to do, huh? Yeah! I’ve told you everything, so, well, you know, whatever. We knew I was a failure, anyway, right?”
“John.”
“That I’d end up screwing everything up, so, pfft, you know!”
“John…”
“I’m gonna pack my bag, and you’ll just drop me off at Arkha–”
“John!”
Bruce placed both hands on John’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug so intense that John thought he might suffocate. But, in Bruce’s arms, he would’ve suffocated with pleasure. His arms wrapped around his boyfriend-best friend-former sidekick, and his fingers grabbed the fabric of his jacket.
“I can file a complaint against the place, there might be something in the contract that puts the club at fault–”
“Nah. It’s my fault, really. I was naive–”
“You were optimistic, John. They took advantage of your inexperience.”
“Oooh I know that,” John hissed, pulling away slightly, his jaw clenched. “That bitch! I’d love to– …” John made a gesture with his hands, as if miming a broken neck. He felt Bruce’s discomfort and rolled his eyes. “Relax, I didn’t do anything, I won’t do anything. But admit she deserved it!”
“Okay, okay… She's dishonest. I’m not saying she deserves to be killed, but… can I do something?”
“Pfft, nah. Nothing.”
John sank back into the chair. He felt a little better having been able to talk to Bruce. Maybe that was enough. He felt less… pathetic. Bruce hadn’t mocked him. Hadn’t rejected him. Hadn’t even pitied him. That was something, right? John nervously ran a hand through his hair, and a dry laugh shook his shoulders. Bruce cleared his throat.
“… What are you going to do?”
“No idea. I was thinking... not going back. But that pisses me off even more than their damn faces. I mean... staying there, doing nothing, and on top of that losing all that money! That’d be even more pathetic! So… maybe I’ll go back.”
Bruce gave him a curious look, and John felt a shiver run down his spine. He liked getting Bruce’s attention like that.
“You really want to go back?” he asked, more thoughtful than anything. Somewhere, that boosted John’s confidence.
“Why not? I’m better than them, right?”
“Yeah,” Bruce gave him a small smile, something in his eyes suddenly shining. A glimmer of pride. John beamed, catching that fragment in his gaze. He smiled wider, and after a brief breath, he leaned in to kiss Bruce’s cheek. Bruce’s expression softened, and his arm wrapped around John’s shoulders, pulling him closer.
“Can I come?” he asked, resting his head against John’s neck—which sent a shiver down John’s spine, still euphoric from feeling Bruce so close, wrapped in his musky scent.
The question was unexpected. John blinked slightly, almost anticipating a punchline (as if Bruce Wayne would really come to a dingy comedy club in Gotham to watch John get humiliated on stage). But… John had to admit, he wanted Bruce to see him on stage. He wanted him to be proud of him— to spark that glimmer in his eyes again. He wanted Bruce to come. But he couldn’t just say yes, could he? Especially under these circumstances… What if Bruce ended up laughing at him, like everyone else?
He must’ve stayed silent too long because Bruce lifted his head, an apologetic smile on his lips this time. John’s stomach knotted immediately. He didn’t want Bruce to tiptoe around him— he didn’t want to see that sorry look on his face anymore.
“But if you don’t want to, it’s fine, I understand,” Bruce said calmly, as if it didn’t matter.
“NO!” John yelled before clearing his throat. “No, you—” What had Dr. Leland said about trust, hmm? John’s hands trembled slightly around Bruce’s shirt. “… You really want to come?”
Bruce cupped his face in his hand.
"I’d really like to."
There was something possessive in his gaze now, in the way he held John close. John blinked, trying to figure out if Bruce was hiding something. But… no. It didn’t feel like a trap. The sudden joy that came with that realization made his head spin. It was a surge of adrenaline, and he let out a few laughs, as if trying to free his chest from the weight of that overwhelming feeling. The embrace that followed was so strong, so reassuring, that John closed his eyes and let his mind settle for a moment. Bruce hadn’t laughed at him — and he wouldn’t.
…Right?
Hard to believe that everything would be fine, not while he was waiting to go on stage. Apparently, the café was packed. Of course it was, for the final show. The rumor had spread like wildfire. John felt like he was in free fall, plummeting into a bottomless void, with no one and nothing to catch him. Behind the curtain, he was pacing back and forth, tugging at his hair. He wanted to run away, he wanted to storm on stage and throw his stool at their smug faces, he wanted to scream, to laugh, to stab someone just to feel the knife slide into flesh, to take life— no, no, no. Everything was going to be fine.
The curtain lifted. He was blinded by the spotlight. He stepped up to the mic, palms sweating. He cleared his throat and the sound shrieked through the speakers. He didn’t know what to say. He was frozen. A deer caught in the headlights. His eyes swept the room. They were already laughing at him, he could feel it, in their smug, sizing stares. And then… he saw Bruce. Sitting in the back. No. NO. He couldn’t see him like this! He’d be disappointed, he’d realize John wasn’t worth anything, that he— Bruce gave him a thumbs-up, a simple gesture of encouragement. And that was all it took. John smiled. His mind cleared. He started speaking, telling the jokes he’d written weeks—no, months—ago. Some of them were a bit cringy, sure, but whatever. John thought they were funny. And… from his corner of the room, Bruce seemed to think so too. He was smiling. Watching him with such intensity, such pride, that John felt more powerful than ever. More powerful even than when he had been the Joker. Up there, on that stage, he was in control—no matter what those people thought. They weren’t really the ones he wanted to impress.
He pleased Bruce.
And that was all that mattered, in his too-bright world.
Bruce.
It had always been Bruce.
Even when he thought he was alone against the world, even when he threw himself headfirst into chaos, even when he laughed just to keep from crying — deep down, all he had ever wanted was for him to see him. To really see him. Not as a case to fix, not as a broken somebody. But as someone. As John. And now that Bruce was here, looking at him like that (like John was more than enough, more than good, more than worthy) then… maybe he could be. Maybe he didn’t need to blow up the world just to exist in it. Maybe he could just… keep going. Keep telling his nonsense. Keep shining under the spotlight, if that was what Bruce wanted to see. Because tonight, he wasn’t performing for them. He was performing for Bruce. And for himself.
The stage lights dimmed slowly, leaving behind only muffled laughter and whispers in the room. John exhaled, still clutching the microphone. He wasn’t sure what he had just done. He wasn’t sure of anything, really—except that his heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might tear through his chest.
Then he heard a voice ring out from somewhere in the audience:
“What the hell was that?! A comedy set or a public therapy session?”
Laughter erupted. Harsh. Cruel. The same kind that used to paralyze him. John felt his stomach twist. His hands began to shake again. He wanted to laugh, or scream. Maybe both. But before he could move, Bruce stood up. He cut through the crowd with a calm stride, each step coiled with quiet tension, controlled, precise, dangerous. A single glance at his shoulders was enough to silence even the loudest hecklers. He stepped onto the stage without saying a word and placed a firm hand on John’s shoulder.
“Anyone else got something to say?” he asked, without raising his voice.
Silence. Absolute. His eyes swept slowly across the room like a cold blade. He didn’t need to threaten, didn’t need to strike. His gaze alone was enough to shut them all down. Then he turned to John, and this time, his expression softened.
“You were incredible.”
His fingers brushed the back of John’s neck, like an anchor, like a promise. John blinked, too stunned to answer. He was still trembling, but now it was from emotion. He swallowed. And smiled. When they stepped down from the stage together, Bruce slipped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. He shielded him from the stares, the snickers, the comments (as if he alone could build a cocoon around him, an entire world where no one was allowed to hurt him). And John, for the first time in a long time, let him. He let himself be protected. He didn’t need a knife. He didn’t need a mask.
He had Bruce.
And that was all he needed.