Warnings: None really, well none that one of age would find offensive.
Disclaimer: Batman and all associated with the DC Universe do not belong to me. In no way am I profitting from this.

This won't make much sense unless you read, Full Exposure. I hope people enjoy this, because I would like to write another piece after this one. So... *fingers crossed*

"I think…" the clown murmured, tapping his chin with a plum leather finger, tongue clicking till it all abruptly stopped and he stilled. "I know I'm going to keep you."

"Bruce."

He had sounded so sure.

"Bruce!"

A swat to the arm and faraway eyes slowly blinked away the glaze there, focusing on too close, concerned blue ones. He carefully moved away from the sweet-smelling invasion of personal space, and pretended not to notice Rachel's small frown when he did so.

"Bruce? Are you feeling well? You seem distracted."

Everyone had been saying that lately: "Master Bruce, are you listening? Mr. Wayne, are you paying attention? Bruce, are you thinking about certain maniacal clowns again?" Okay, so maybe the last hadn't been asked but he could easily see it in their narrowed eyes, accusing him. Like all the other times, he merely answered Rachel with a blank look. He didn't talk much these days.

It all seemed rather… needless.

"Alfred said you've been acting odd lately-" Well, odder than usual, his mind bitterly supplied in her soft tone of voice. His freakishness went without saying, but it was always there, hidden under the context and glinting in the awkward pauses. "Ever since you stopped going to your therapist."

"He told you about that?" he nearly whispered.

"Yes, he did, and it's nothing to be embarrassed over." Warm hands clasped over the joined fists held in front of him on the table; they held firm, even when he initially jerked at the contact. She ducked her head -her scrunched face invading his vision- silently imploring him for whatever reason. What that was, he didn't know. "… he said you were doing really well for a couple months till… this again. What happened? Did you just not like your therapist?"

Bruce paused, taking in the fact his friend looked rather serious, and then he was struck with the urge to laugh but didn't, because that would have to entail an explanation he wouldn't ever know how to give. Rachel was talking about Clinical therapy with "Just call Me Clark." He had thought Rachel was mentioning- that Alfred somehow knew- but she wasn't- and he couldn't- no one knew, only Bruce- and well, the clown.

Mask still in place and stiff -unchanging from the quarreling hysteria, amusement, and boredom underneath- he took a small drink of his coffee and remembered she was expecting an answer from him.

"It's better this way." And there, he was referring to the Truth, the actual therapy, gunshots and crimson sprays. He tried not to think on how much he missed it.

Rachel sat back, her eyebrows pulled into a wrinkled line. "Better how?"

The stubbled skin around his mouth whitened; twisted red splitting to reveal stained fangs blooming in sick clarity in his mind. Something in his stomach fluttered, and he stamped whatever it was down with the firm shake of his head. "It just is."

Apparently his lawyer friend wasn't so willing to accept that -prying and huffing- but he would discuss it no further. When her interrogation hit its plateau, Alfred had wandered back into the kitchen after a convenient bout of cleaning and asked how the pair was fairing, had she talked sense into his stubborn charge yet. Having been staring listlessly out the window throughout their exchange -gray clouds progressing slowly and stinging his eyes- he rose from the table and left the room.

Not a word was uttered till he was well up the stairs on the way to his quarters.

"Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-" Annoyed with the whore's whiny grunts, he felt relief once he came, more over the fact it was over than the satisfaction of orgasm itself. One more thrust for good measure and he was unloading, rolling away to the other side of the king-sized bed, sweaty and physically sated but not blissfully drowsy like a good fuck entailed.

Eyes sealed shut with sweat -the extra effort to get off was astounding- he stayed still as the mattress shifted beside him and the telltale rustle of clothing being gathered filled him with a complacent air. His pulse and breathing had slowed to its normal pace before his back had even hit the bedsprings. The entire affair was wholly unsatisfactory, and he couldn't figure out at that moment why.

"Will that be all?" was drawled from the foot of the bed. He squinted his eyes open seeing the once arousing sight of a pretty face, a fit body clutching wrinkled clothes against a sharp hip, and an unattended to hard, leaking cock bathed in moonlight pouring in. He sat up a little. For a moment he merely stared at the escort with a blank expression. The short brunet was attractive enough, and Bruce should have enjoyed himself, but… he hadn't. It made sense to blame the whore.

So after taking in the softening flesh and mounting impatience, he blandly gestured at his groin. Bruce's lips curled in lazy amusement as the escort immediately caught on to his wishes -blue eyes flashing- and visibly bit back a scathing retort. He gracefully went around to the side of the bed where Bruce lay and leaned over. Practiced fingers quickly peeled off the soiled condom. Nose scrunched up at the soggy wrap pinched between his fingers, he looked to Bruce for where in this dark, gigantic room was the trashcan and fast.

The other man's obvious discomfort -he must be new at this- was in turn a small comfort for Bruce. Maybe this night and the money it cost wasn't a complete waste if he could have a glimmer of the little thrill he once had. Like Diet Euphoria, low-calorie Fun, I Can't Believe It's Not Sadism.

But this wasn't like that. It was pettiness and the act of an asshole. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and plucked the condom from the other's hand. "Put it all on my tab, thank you."

The escort had left in a hurry even though Bruce normally liked to keep them until after round two once he was ready again, but this time he was grateful for the reluctance on both ends. What was wrong with him? He had been looking forward to tonight after weeks of celibacy, having felt confident enough not to pull a gun on the first stranger he'd seen in weeks- which that sounded pathetic.

And the insecurities of a psycho.

Fantastic.

Dunking his head under the scalding water seemed to eradicate those thoughts quite effectively, but he couldn't very well stay in the shower forever. Wealth had its advantages and forty minutes worth of deep breathing thick, humid air made him dizzy enough to stumble, dripping to his bed and flop onto the dirty sheets. Another five minutes more immersed in steam and he would have passed out. He shivered under the wash of cold air in the room.

The noticeably empty room.

Shadows played on the ceiling. The west wing quiet save the tap tap tapping on the large windows by the bare tree branches outside. He had the sudden urge to make an impromptu trip to the shed and grab an axe, then chop the thing down.

Would that be weird to do at two AM?

Must be if he was questioning it.

No, instead he burrowed into the linens and pillows that reeked of sweat and spunk and something that suspiciously resembled shame and forced himself into a fine imitation of sleep, falling into a semiconscious suspension of marred cherry lips and a flickering tongue, coming together in a fanged vicious smile [1]. Dream-rendered images he convinced himself not to remember in the morning.

Near impossible when he awoke tangled in sticky sheets and still hard.

"Master Bruce."

He didn't listen to music as he worked out. Come to think of it, he didn't listen to much music at all; so of course he heard the exact moment the door clicked open and Alfred's shoes click-clacked across the floor and whispered against the mats- and even more so by logic he had heard the older man call for him. Bruce had exquisite hearing. Most of his life spent in a quiet existence, safe from the eardrum-damaging commotion of the city, was thankfully responsible.

So Bruce ignored him. The rapid battering of taped knuckles against a heavy punching bag could easily overwhelm that subdued, cockney accent. Whatever Alfred had to say -as per usual lately- he didn't want to hear it. Yeah, it was childish and maybe even a little bit cruel, but he couldn't allow himself to care. Those few hours of routine exercise had increased exponentially, taking over most of his day. He hadn't been to the office in weeks, afraid he might torture the temps and fire random employees for sport, all out of sheer boredom. Evening walks dwindled, not trusting his restlessness to temptation to go farther, to go South towards steel intestines and brick flesh all swallowed in sepia lights and shadow. When his mind started to see the Narrows as a place to be desired, was a warning enough to steer clear.

It could have been the heightened awareness of movement or simply paranoia, but he almost sensed a hand hovering over his slick, flexing shoulder, the hesitancy so clear to be more than just the apprehension of sweat made his punches lose rhythm then speed up in erratic determination. Left-right-right-left-left-left-right-left-right-No left-

Why did Alfred insist to be near him when it was so obvious he didn't want to be? Some survival instinct must tell the old man how close he'd been- how close he was to- …

Bruce couldn't stomach the red-tinged thoughts.

After a few beats and his rhythm recovered, he was convinced Alfred had left. His stiff spine losing some of its tension-

"Sir!" was like a sharp pick axe through the side of his head, startling and knocking him off balance.

"What?" he grunted, the room spinning with a death grip around the bag and riding out it slowing sways.

Alfred fixed him with a withering glare with little to no sympathy involved. He knew he was being ignored. "Telephone call." The cordless was held out politely, red light blinking for call waiting.

"Who is it?"

"A Doctor Jonathan Crane. He says he's calling in regards to your inquiries a few months back."

He frowned, eyes staring at the mat as he puzzled out why Arkham's Head Psychiatrist would be calling him now of all times. Did he want more money? Though of course he was curious to know how the doctor obtained his private number. Wayne Manor wasn't simply accessible to all and sundry.

"Sir?"

With the vertigo passed, he reached down and snatched the towel tossed beside his water bottle. Patting the sweat off his flushed face and taking a long sucking pull from the tepid water.

Alfred's lips looked as if they were about to disappear from his face entirely, pressed so white together and curling into his head like a sour lemon.

Bruce remembered that proud grin the old man had given him all those months back.

Suddenly he found the other's presence stifling in the large, personal gym. He hastened to make his exit, brushing past the held out phone and speed walking to the door. "Tell him instead of bothering me at my home, he could redirect his calls to my secretary since I originally did him the same courtesy."

"Verbatim, Sir?" Never before had the loyal butler sounded so very tired.

The billionaire wondered if it was admirable to have walked steadily despite the sharp pang in his chest. He never did answer though. He had to find other, less homicidal things to do.

The days following, Bruce had made it a habit to take his meals in the study to avoid the mounting tension between him and his butler. He knew he was hiding like a coward -the quiet sighs and disappointed glances stung- but it was so much easier to build the supposed "paperwork" Fox sent him around his desk like a towering shield and claim he was too swamped to do much else.

Today was no different.

His eyes were fixed on a faxed invoice, though his attention kept straying to the fountain pen mindlessly bobbing between his fingers just off to the side. He hadn't bothered dressing today, considering his boxers and open robe sufficient apparel for another day of going absolutely nowhere.

When the study's door clicked, his muscles tensed for only a second before he got back to work with more of a believable display of concentration. Some of the dishes clinked on the tray as Alfred carried it across the room. Bruce could see in his peripheral the butler's moment of apprehension -sad blue searching amongst paper towers for an empty spot- until he gave up and plopped the tray onto the shortest stack with a harsh clatter, the cringing sound not loud enough to mask the weary sigh.

Intent on staring at the words going in and out of focus in front of him, he tracked the older man's movements by sense alone: The thirty-second prickle at the side of his desk, the sudden shift in the air, whispering carpet, the strong unease stiffening his spine, then the snap of curtain rings and startling white flooded the dark. His desktop lamp dim and unnecessary. Bruce hadn't realized his hackles had risen until they relaxed a twitch, having seen Alfred walk back from his spot at the window behind Bruce and stand before him now; the large, cluttered desk separating them.

Close to a minute passed of Alfred watching Bruce watching sentences blur. His bare leg bouncing under the desk and out of sight. The silence stretched until, thankfully, the answer came to him. With an awkward clear of his throat, Bruce grumbled a "Thank you."

In reply, the old butler exhaled sharply through his nose. "I'm to ask this one last time: Are you going to resume help for your problem?"

Bruce hadn't felt such a surge of curdling red in months. Frustration, yes, but not this. The paper's edges crinkled and ripped in his grasp. He wanted to spit that he didn't have a problem and even if he did, it was well managed.

The letter opener glinted in its holder, the edges too dull but with enough force-

Self-repulsion tore apart his anger into smoldering ashen flakes, settling into a churning nausea in his stomach. Slumping over, he hid his face in his palm, fingers digging in the corners of tightly squeezed shut eyes. They reluctantly slipped open after a minute, wearily surveying that stern, wrinkled face waiting for the answer the old butler wanted to hear.

A weak "No" rode the gust of air from his slack lips.

Alfred stood firm and eerily calm, hands clasped at his mid-section. The only sign that he had heard Bruce was his pale eyes shuttering and the very slight pursing of an already straight line of mouth. When he finally did open it, it was a steel punch in Bruce's gut. "… then I think I'm going to take that vacation time I've accumulated over the years."

All the color drained from his charge's face. "How- how many of those years?" Alfred hadn't taken a day off since Bruce's parents died. That was eighteen years ago.

"As m-many as it takes for you to get your act together."

Too distracted with the sudden loss of hearing replaced by a high-pitched trill in his ears, he didn't catch the clear break in the older man's response nor the fact Alfred had never done so since Bruce having known him. He was too preoccupied with the screeching thought, "He's leaving. He's leaving me and I'm going to be alone," over and over in his head. Alfred's lips continued moving, but Bruce didn't understand any of it; broken words like "Time-Grow-Appreciate" came through in a garbled blender.

Eventually the old gentleman ran out of words, the latest apology evaporating on his tongue. Dry eyes, pinched at the corners, watched the young man sitting before him staring down at his paperwork with a very blank expression on his handsome yet sickly sallow face. His breath came short at the total lack of reaction. Pain washed across his features for a fleeting moment before it all receded back under the surface.

This- this was for the best.

Alfred drew himself up in a ramrod straight posture, the opened curtains allowing light to deepen years of unnoticed wrinkles. A bitter, frustrated maelstrom underneath a cold demeanor. "… goodbye for now, Master Wayne."

Bruce forcefully fixed his attention back on his work, pulling the top manila folder from the nearest stack and flipping it open and immediately reading. Shoulders drawn up, waiting.

Snick- of the door.

And then it was over.

The diligence for L.S.I. holdings were in order. [2]

He had read that fact over and over until the sunlight prickling the back of his neck burned orange. Eventually, slowly, he placed the work back on his desk; his hands carefully smoothing it closed. Next, he rose from his chair and left his study. The walk to Alfred's quarters lasted minutes with a measured gait. Like the manor, the crack beneath the door was dark. He pushed it open without preamble and flipped on the switch. Light spilled out onto the corridor, a black silhouette stretching up the opposite wall. Its owner standing still for dragging seconds and staring into an empty room: The mattress stripped and the small closet left open to display a pair of lonely hangers. Bruce gazed upon it all with a calm expression. The light was shut off and the room's door was closed fully with robotic precision.

The Wayne heir had then retreated to his own quarters, slipping through the mahogany double-doors. He had went on to carefully close them with soundless care, hands lingering on each gold handle until -stinging eyes falling shut- they tightened into shaking fists. The breath he'd been holding shuddered from his lungs in one weak gasp.

Throughout the empty manor, crashes and almost inhuman howls resounded for hours into the night.

Days, but in reality only hours later, he awoke to far-off slamming; its echoes rousing him from his stupor. Sunlight filled his vision, eyeballs rolling stickily in their sockets. Sharp edges biting into his cheek. Head pounding, he flopped onto his back, more nicks spanning his shoulder blades. Through the haze of precise pain grinding into his skin, he belatedly realized what the slamming meant.

Someone was here in the manor. Alfred. He must have come back.

Exhausted relief swept through him. The corner of his slack mouth pulling into a weak grin. He gingerly sat up, wincing as he did so. Every muscle stretched, sore and lank. His arms hung limply in his lap as he surveyed the wreckage with almost catatonic scrutiny. Bed frame and all thrown up against the wall, a corner of it poking out of a shattered window, curtains ripped from their rungs, dresser and bureau utterly demolished, telltale dents in the walls, bits of goose down feathers still floating lazily in the air and clinging to his hair. It was all quite cringe-worthy and hopefully Alfred wouldn't pitch too big of a fit when he sees it.

At the time, the breaking and the screaming all just felt monstrously good. The clawing in his chest had settled, so the destruction could only be considered cathartic, right?

Standing up on two legs was a slow, unsteady process and when he did, the world swooped and the light flashed brighter than instantly black, dissolving away into a thudding migraine. After a couple of deep, settling breaths he staggered around the debris and out of the war zone altogether. He had to talk to Alfred.

The slamming and rustling became more violent and uncharacteristic the closer he came to the kitchen. The blender started to whir the intensity of a chainsaw and his teeth bared as the unforgivable noise drilled into his sensitive brain. Doors continued to bang. Was the old butler that angry with him? Well, enraged it sounded more like. Gotham News in the Morning blared; their demoted anchor, Summer Gleeson's sugary voice commented in strained excitement about a dog fashion show.

All the noise did wonders to keep his head a throbbing mess.

"Alfred, what are you…" His rasp petered out to soundless words of a uselessly working jaw when he took the plunge and stepped into the kitchen.

Everything- everything was an absolute disaster.

Food was flung about everywhere: Flour dusted the once sparkling granite counters in a thick layer; anything that could splatter was, egg yolks descended from the high ceiling in yellow globs; slices of watermelon sizzled in the toaster; dry, broken noodles crackled under his feet; an explosion of raw pork clung to the microwave's walls; spaghetti sauce spattered random surfaces, a garlic-seasoned crime scene; strips of uncooked bacon were wrapped meticulously around each brushed nickel handle; a lopsided chocolate syrup smiley face had melted in rivulets on stainless steel; sticks of butter still in their wax seals boiled and popped on the foot-high flames of the stove, smoke swirled from the bubbling mess. His eyes trailed up the gray billows and watched as it engulfed the dismantled smoke alarm.

It wasn't the only appliance essentially destroyed: A handful of forks banged and clattered against the spinning blades of the blender; steak knives were punched through cabinet doors; it appeared a game had been made of lobbing butter knives at the wall, some embedded at odd angles while others lay in a pile on the floor.

Stunned, he tripped over to the stove -wincing as egg shells flattened under his steps- and switched off the flames. The burnt stench carried on slowly parting clouds of smoke stung his eyes. Blindly, he grappled around the hissing toaster until his fingers curled around its cord and yanked. Then he switched off the grating yips of Mia, the princess-inspired Cairn Terrier and threw open the window, hanging part way out of it and believing the cool air was helping his headache. At least the worst of it was taken care of.

Then it seemed the racket started all over again but somewhere else in the manor. Weary, bloodshot eyes cracked open. Someone was in the house, and it most definitely was not Alfred. Sadness welled up at that slow revelation.

When he exited the kitchen -the commotion louder yet still a ways off- he thought briefly about returning to his room and retrieving the gun from his father's medical bag but instantly decided against it.

As they say about slippery slopes…

Should he call the authorities then? That was what one does, wasn't it, when some stranger was in their home? He never had to deal with this before, and the reality of it left him feeling understandably violated. But if he called, more people would come: Traipsing the grounds of the only place he ever felt safe, touching his property, invading his space, and corrupting the peaceful silence. Well, wasn't that all shot to hell already? Would more really make a difference? After all Bruce would already trust their intentions. Then again, wonder if by some freak coincidence they searched his bedroom. Saw the damage he created and asked him about it? They might "investigate," find his -not really his- weapon and connect it to the utterly random string of bodies sprinkling the Narrows.

They would know he had killed people for his own peace of mind.

Bruce's stomach twisted at the thought.

By the time his awareness broke the surface of the almost drowning sensation of his paranoia, he found himself outside the closed double doors of his entertainment room having been subconsciously drawn towards the blaring noise originating from inside. Tentatively slipping inside proved his eardrums could take a magnificent beating: The surround sound was tuned up to full capacity, vibrating the invisible molecules in the air to almost visibility. Nothing appeared out of place; only the enormous flat screen was on, rapidly flipping through channels: From a roasted chicken to a talking sponge, lingering for a moment on a chainsaw-wielding maniac that held Bruce's interest for a moment, then a whining monochromatic Lucille Ball. Reluctantly starting to adjust to the blaring speakers, he slowly moved across the room and came around the end of the long couch. Raggedy sneakers propped on the glass coffee table was the first thing that he saw. His eyes widened as they followed the long line of ripped denim legs up to a slumped, lean torso, casually dressed in a dark hooded sweatshirt.

Suddenly the noise at his back might as well be muted when the crisp crunch of an apple snapped his attention up to those scars. Healed torn skin stretching to accommodate the fruit.

Bruce was thrown back to that encounter months ago with a smiling, painted face backing him up against grimey brick. Words were exchanged though he couldn't remember exactly what. All he had was the paranoia of his secret being divulged to others and a jester playing card tucked away in his father's medical bag next to his glock.

Oh and more than a dozen embarrassing mornings where he woke up in sticky shorts and ruined Egyptian cotton sheets. His neck flushed when a favorites reel flashed unbidden in his mind as he stared at this watered down stranger.

"Your vigilance leaves much to be desired," he heard clearly.

Bruce pulled back from his musings far enough to notice the volume had plunged drastically and the other man was shooting him a glance from the corner of his eye as he watched the television.

His mouth worked uselessly with so many questions fighting to come out.

Another obnoxious bite of apple. "Waited till the old man left," he said through his mouthful, "I figured you wouldn't want him… disposed of." He smirked, chewing sloppily. "You didn't sound like you were up for, ah, visitors last night. You really oughta secure your perimeter better. So easy that it was sad." His chuckle conflicted with his words.

Bruce shifted uneasily on his feet. Someone -especially this one- heard him last night? The itchy grit of violation reasserted itself under his skin. That and a burning humiliation.

"Why-"

"Sit, sit." A ghostly white hand patted the cushion lazily. "This is your stately manor after all…"

The last thing Bruce wanted to do was sit. He wanted answers. One like, "What are you doing here?"

"You don't entertain guests very much, do you?" He took another hearty bite of his apple as he lifted the remote and changed the channel. Two hunched, suited men were arguing over foreign diplomacy on screen, and the scarred man beside him snickered before switching it to women's volleyball. Seconds passed of Bruce watching the clown watching the ball being smacked back and forth. When he opened his mouth to ask about the other's presence again he was beaten to it. "… you never called."

Bruce had to lean close to hear the quiet words mumbled into the apple core and reared back once he had. A bark of laughter abruptly escaped him. He fell back into the squishy cushions, sinking several inches as he pinched the bridge of his nose and chuckled at the absolute absurdity of this situation: Here he was watching TV with a man who broke into his home, trashed his kitchen (and who knew what else), the same man who caught him at his therapeutic game in the Narrows, attacked and flirted with him, and had given him his number. Now this "Joker" was here and his only reason for doing so was because Bruce hadn't called? Another strike of hilarity hit him.

The chuckles petered out under the crunch crunch crunch of idle of chewing. More of that night came back to him: The cryptic words, the face paint, the nuzzling, and the effortless dismantling of his gun.

Bruce sobered completely. He had the feeling the strange man beside him was more lethal than bullets. He didn't know such a thing was possible until that night.

Muscles previously relaxed in the wake of amusement stiffened. His mouth dry, he shot an uneasy side long glance. "… no, I didn't call."

A pause and another crisp bite. The channel jumped to some 90s family sitcom. "And why didn't you?"

The bored drawl set off alarms in Bruce's head. He was sure his answer would have to be a good one or otherwise… otherwise why should it matter? This was his house, and some time ago he made a firm decision, albeit one driven by fear of it all ending out of his control, but a decision nonetheless. Since when did Bruce have to answer to some nobody?

So with half a cup of Courage, a sprinkle of Bravado, and a dash of genuine Unease, he sat up straight and jutted his chin. At the last second when his mouth opened, his eyes snapped away from the other man's too relaxed profile and settled stubbornly on the smudge of white on his earlobe, loose strands of moss tangling with the plain silver hoop fixed to it.

"I'm not doing that anymore."

"So I'm aware." At the unspoken confusion he elaborated. "I've men watching this place and your favorite train stop. You haven't left your cushy bubble for weeks." A mixture of awe and disappointment colored his previously flat tone. "I'd ask what you've been doing, but I've spoken in depth to the pretty boys you sent away." His lips smacked loudly after a particularly big bite.

Heat surged in his high-cut cheeks and streaked down his neck. Bruce was comfortable with his sexual proclivities, but it didn't mean he wanted the world to know. The mention of sex, though unfortunately, distracted him from the bigger picture: Strangers were watching his home -watching him- others were involved.

"You- you told other-"

"Of course not. They do what I tell them, and they don't need to know more than that." The finished apple thumped to the floor. "So your, ah, secret is safe with me." Dark eyes glanced conspiratorially through paint-clumped lashes.

"Why have them watch me? I'm not doing that anymore."

"Ah, but you miss it." That wasn't a question. "You only stopped cuz of me, and I must admit that hurts, Brucey baby. That was your… main appeal. You can't just throw that away. To, uh, simply stop cold turkey is… laughable. You can't spend all your time exercising, though I can't argue with the results…" He leered, black pupils leisurely tracing the well-defined pecks, the tight abs, and lower.

Bruce shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. How could he have forgotten he was just wearing a measly pair of boxers? He jerked when hot breath sluiced over his naked shoulder. "God," he let slip out on a shudder. That suffocating presence pulled away, and maybe now he could breathe.

"No, 'All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring.' You sitting around here, wasting your potential whether due to paranoia or some misplaced sense of self-righteousness is…"

Bruce teetered on the edge of the couch to either run away from what could be happening here or falling entirely to the intensity of the clown's stare burning straight through him, waiting to dissect the charred remains. He gulped, keeping his hands balled at his sides to hide the shaking. "… wh-what do you mean?"

"I mean…" Lips slick with apple curled warmly. "We must never, ever be boring, Brucey. And I am going to be the one to save you."

And didn't his mind zip off in a million different directions. "My hero," he retorted, scowling at the implication he was weak. Bruce was alone and terrified, but it didn't mean he was weak.

"No." The clown grinned, changing the channel one last time. It was a GCN special report: Mike Engle droning beside a grainy security tape, black figures violently brandishing guns around cowering people; it cut to the chase with a close up of one assailant crouching over a man as he took off his mask; the blown up image was distorted but Bruce was very well acquainted with that chipper clown face. Bruce turned his saucer-wide eyes over to the man grinning beside him.

"You robbed a bank."

Triumph sharpened the scarred man's smirk. That and smugness. "And that's not all." He motioned back to the television. The Commissioner and a judge had been killed; Harvey Dent, the District Attorney's, life had been threatened.

"You and me, Brucey, we're gonna have a lot of fun."

Panic sparked through his nerves. Realization hit Bruce: There really was no arguing his way out of this; the clown was bringing him along whether Bruce wanted to or not. He had been feeling so empty and yet filled with anger for all these months that he almost didn't recognize the Excitement creeping up in his endorphins. He could only sit there and stare vacantly at that razor sharp smile.

"I said I was going to keep you, and I always keep my word."

[1] Image taken from the wonderful suggestion by littleblacklily in her comment when I first posted this long ago.
[2] I took that from the Dark Knight script, because I am completely useless when it comes to business jargon.
[3] Marked quote about God above comes from Chuck Palaniuk.

Hoped you liked it and please don't forget to review.