Sunlit Reflections
By
Godell
Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight.
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"A little while ago, Harvey, you said the, ah, dawn was coming. Did you mean it?"
Harvey is staring at the pistol in his hand, marveling at how it shines in the sunlight. Joker clearly takes care of his "toys"—there isn't a single speck of blood or dust on it, almost virginal in its unblemished state.
"Yes." Oh, he had believed it—believed it with the conviction of a man in love, a man who knew happiness, a man who knew he could change things for the better, maybe even the best.
"Still believe it?"
Joker perches beside him on the bed, kicking his legs lightly against the bedrail, making soft thunk-a-thunk-thunk-thunk noises as the sunlight catches the stark whiteness of his short nurse skirt. He's almost perky now, now that he's proven his point. Harvey wonders briefly what would have happened if the coin had come up scarred. Would he have been so cheerful then?
It wouldn't surprise him.
"Harvey?" Joker is looking at him with tenderness that Harvey knows is fake, has to be.
"Don't look at me like that."
"Why not? Is it because…I look like her when I do that?"
Rachel. It always comes back to her, her hair, eyes, heart-shaking smile, her sweet voice…
"No. You don't look like her. You look…human when you do that. That's all."
Joker falls silent, eyes half-lidded. He smoothes his skirt almost absentmindedly, one hand clenching the white linen.
"Do I?"
"Do you what?" Harvey slowly sits up, watching as Joker's gaze meets his in a flicker of dormant brown.
"Look human. Do I…look human…right now."
Harvey looks at him. Joker has the face of a man—a young man, probably in his mid-twenties. The makeup hides it a little, makes Harvey question himself, until he sees the scars. Those are real, of course, terribly real.
He reaches out to touch them, fingertips meeting strange ridges of skin and hints of long-dissolved, hastily-placed stitches.
Joker leans away, head tilted coyly. "Ah-ta-ta-ta. Don't." His tone is anything but coy.
"You wanted to know if you look human. You do."
Joker giggles and slaps his knee. "See, Harvey, that's why I like you. You truly are…a White Knight. A little dirty now, sure, but…you're still a hero."
Harvey snorts and looks away. His gaze locks on the X-rays on the wall. They're blurred, for some reason. He can't imagine why.
"I'm not a hero. Not anymore."
Joker doesn't even blink. He reaches out and gently—too gently—touches the mutilated side of Harvey's face.
That touch is so…familiar. It reminds Harvey of Rachel.
Harvey looks away.
"Hey, now, don't be shyyyy." A bony thumb lifts his chin, forces him to look up at the sunlit room and the self-styled Agent of Chaos there with him. "Knights aren't supposed to back down. Especially not you. You're a grade-A hero right now."
"Me?" Harvey can't believe it.
"Yep. Y'see, it…doesn't matter if you're, ah, not Gotham's knight. Gotham is just a little cardboard cutout. You, you're the one who decides if you're a hero. It's that simple."
Joker lets go of him, patting the hand that still holds his coin. It looks like Joker's getting ready to leave. Harvey instinctually hands him back the gun.
"Here. I won't be needing it."
"Oh, yes you will. You've got a lot of work to do." Joker slides off the bed, cracking his knuckles. "By the way, Harvey…you, ah, never answered my question."
Harvey shrugs and gestures to the sunlight streaming through the windows. "It seemed a little redundant."
Joker laughs and leans over to clap him on the shoulder good-naturedly. "You're a real laugh, Harv. Really."
He leaves a brown mark on Harvey's hospital clothes, a smear of Harvey's necrotic tissue, a symbol of his new self. Just to remind Harvey of what he is now—a new and improved brand of justice.
In the sunlight, the smear looks like chocolate.
Harvey feels his lips curl into something that would have once been called a smile. He didn't realize how much he missed having a sense of humor.
He blinks, and Joker is by the door, preparing to leave. The sunlight hits Joker in just the right way, making him seem like a strange cocktail of angel and demon, in war paint. The sun fades behind a cloud, and the room darkens.
"Oh, and Harvey?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember—it's not about you. It's about…what's fair."
In a flash of returning sunlight, Joker is gone.
Slowly Harvey places the coin on the bedside table. He gets out of bed, and is jolted by the sensation of his bare feet on solid ground.