Does he retreat from the unexpected (and unexpectedly nonviolent) press of Bruce's body against his? Does he, hell. This is a showdown, friends, a little tête-à-tête at the O.K. Corral. He's not going anywhere.
Which means that before you can say that's not Bruce, Joker has a wall of Bat pressing into him. And it is Batman, there's no mistaking that. Bruce Wayne doesn't move like this, doesn't cross these lines. I've almost got him, Joker thinks, as he smirks right back into Bats's face.
They're too close, deadly close, and even as the warmth from Bats's body starts to wind its way through Joker's suit, the little hairs at the back of his neck are lifting in a lizard-brain warning. To be this close to Batman is to deliberately court a broken nose, a concussion, a cracked rib, worse. It's delicious, the immediacy of the risk. Joker's skin feels like it's humming, like he's hooked to the electrofun machines but the current is just getting going. Like his body is coming alive with bees.
He can see Batman beginning to resurface in the eyes, too. No more Stepford blankness. A little more backbone. Come on, now. Just a little bit more.
Bruce's words are probably loaded with a secondary meaning, but at the moment, that doesn't really matter. What matters in the here-and-now is provoking, prodding. Making him snap. Everything else can be chewed over later.
Joker leans in a little more, tilting his head so that his sharp cheekbone is right next to Bats's. So that he can murmur directly into his ear, with a voice as taunting as the rest of him.
"Oh, I'm sure you've got them lining up around the block. Sweet little thing like you. Mm." He allows one gloved hand to move toward Bats's chest, intending to dance his fingertips along Bats's collarbone if he doesn't get grabbed or punched first. "Bet you've got all sorts of protectors, just dying to leap to your defense."
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Which means that before you can say that's not Bruce, Joker has a wall of Bat pressing into him. And it is Batman, there's no mistaking that. Bruce Wayne doesn't move like this, doesn't cross these lines. I've almost got him, Joker thinks, as he smirks right back into Bats's face.
They're too close, deadly close, and even as the warmth from Bats's body starts to wind its way through Joker's suit, the little hairs at the back of his neck are lifting in a lizard-brain warning. To be this close to Batman is to deliberately court a broken nose, a concussion, a cracked rib, worse. It's delicious, the immediacy of the risk. Joker's skin feels like it's humming, like he's hooked to the electrofun machines but the current is just getting going. Like his body is coming alive with bees.
He can see Batman beginning to resurface in the eyes, too. No more Stepford blankness. A little more backbone. Come on, now. Just a little bit more.
Bruce's words are probably loaded with a secondary meaning, but at the moment, that doesn't really matter. What matters in the here-and-now is provoking, prodding. Making him snap. Everything else can be chewed over later.
Joker leans in a little more, tilting his head so that his sharp cheekbone is right next to Bats's. So that he can murmur directly into his ear, with a voice as taunting as the rest of him.
"Oh, I'm sure you've got them lining up around the block. Sweet little thing like you. Mm." He allows one gloved hand to move toward Bats's chest, intending to dance his fingertips along Bats's collarbone if he doesn't get grabbed or punched first. "Bet you've got all sorts of protectors, just dying to leap to your defense."