A/N: Every other day I open this up, read it, and wonder if I like it. I'm still not sure if I do. As a note, this takes place sometime after TDK, in winter.
A man was sitting on the bench in his holding cell. The single halogen bulb that hung above him was the only light left on, leaving much of the room shrouded in darkness. It was strange, he thought, that they gave him the entire cell, the entire room even, to himself. Then again, maybe it wasn't. He really wasn't sure of anything anymore.
The man closed his eyes and sighed. There had been a time when things weren't this backwards, when he wasn't this selfish, when whatever he did would be for Gotham. Now it was all about him. He cared nothing for Gotham anymore.
But those people who had applauded him and threw flowers at his feet did not see that. "Hero!" they had called, "You have saved Gotham!"
The man shook his head. Gotham was the last thing on his mind that day. He had managed to track him down, in some warehouse in the Narrows. Oh, yes. The clown was there. He could practically smell the bastard, his vileness rolling off of him in thick waves.
And then there he was, in all his glory. His terrible, disgusting glory. Both men were extraordinarily calm, given the situation they were in. The clown had on a horrifyingly smug and understanding smile, despite the loaded gun between his eyes. The man, about to exact the revenge he had hungered for, kept a stony face.
He knew that the clown had wanted this. The clown knew that he knew. The clown wanted everyone to know. Especially the Batman. The Bat would hear of this, and know that the clown was right. The knowledge would probably crush him.
The sun was setting on an icy Gotham and for once in a very long time, the two men were not thinking of the city. One thought of himself, and the other thought of the Batman. Then the man thought of their smiling faces. But what he saw was his smiling face. It was a combination he just couldn't stand.
He had left the warehouse with the gun, empty of its rounds, and had walked straight to MCU to hand himself in.
It was a day that was scorched into the man's memory. The images had etched themselves into the back of his eyes. He would never forget that day. Never forget the clown, or the bitter wind that burned his skin, or the way he shook when he raised the gun, or the feeling of complete deadness that flowed through him when he shot out bullet after bullet.
There was a shuffling in the darkness beyond the bars, and the man opened his eyes and leaned forward.
The Batman emerged partially from the darkness, keeping his face in shadow. The man rose from his spot to grip the bars, his eyes on the Dark Knight the entire time. He stared intensely at the black space above the Kevlar chest, and in a move quite unlike him, the Batman took a very hesitant step into the light.
Their eyes met.
Why? All that I've sacrificed… Why? What was it for? The brown ones were screaming. He was lost and in pain and scrambling for something to hold on to.
The gray eyes were as cold and emotionless as gunmetal.
The Batman, feeling betrayed and vulnerable and terribly relieved, shakily backed into the shadows.
"You're welcome," said the man.
The darkness responded with the sound of hopelessness.
But he did not care.
His family was dead, and he cared for nothing.
He knew that he was proving the Joker right, but his pride and his joy already lay slaughtered, so James Gordon had felt nothing when he had pulled the trigger.