Grace
Knock, knock, knock. He adjusted his tie, cleared his throat. To smile or not? He gave both a try and settled on smiling.
The door opened to reveal a straight backed, almost military cut butler.
"Hello," he said, still smiling, "I would like to speak to the proprietor."
The butler caught his eye, realisation dawning as quickly as a lightning bolt flashing over his features and the door was slammed shut in his face. Luckily, he had the forethought to stick out his foot and the door was prevented from closing fully. He scowled momentarily at the bone bruise he'd undoubtedly earned himself.
"You know I would've thought British butlers'd have a little more decorum," he said, pulling his foot roughly back with enough force to rip the door from the butler's hand and throwing it wide to reveal the obvious, expected, opulent entrance, "Does this mean all the movies have been lying to me?"
"I'll call the police."
He tilted his head like a dog that's heard a puzzling, high pitched noise.
"I'm not sure how that will help considering I haven't done anything," aside from pull a muscle in his calf, wrenching the door open like that, "Plus I think I scare 'em or something. You don't wanna be responsible for giving the GPD the jitters do you? Or is that something else real British butlers like too? Hm?"
The butler merely stared him down and, he imagined, were he any other man, it might have been frightening. He carried on smiling.
"You know who I would have expected you to threaten to sic on me?" he said, leisurely, swinging on the door handle a little. The wood, so heavy and equally opulent in its own way, gave no indication of straining under his weight.
The butler looked tempted to turn away from him.
"Come on, this is no fun if it's not a dialogue Jeeves."
"Who?"
"There we go; that's more like it. I, I would like you to call upon the Batman," he still relished the word and he smiled even wider when the butler made that concentrated effort to look nonplussed, "C'mon. I might be mad," might, he wasn't really sure himself, "But I'm not stupid. Get him."
"Very well, sir," the butler ground out. He watched as the man strode off through some room or other – living room, saloon, dining room, reception room, who knew in a house so large – calling as he went "Master Wayne? A visitor for you."
The butler made it sound like he was a bag of shit on fire on the porch.
The conversation between the butler and young master was brief and when Bruce emerged it was with a puzzled expression on his face. Half Batman, half billionaire playboy, perhaps. Whatever its origin, the expression gave his face a youthful, innocent sort of confusion.
"Can I help you?"
He waved his hand dismissively at the man's whole existence – from the well-tailored chinos to the natty little Ralph Lauren sweater.
"We don't need to do this, Bats. I know," he said and, seeing that he wouldn't be stopped, finally stepped across the threshold like a vampire given the go-ahead to enter.
"And who are you?" Bruce said, although the warped, fractional, smirk on his face told a different story.
"Hey, I might have washed my face but I'm sure the scars didn't come off," he made a scene of patting his face, just in case, checking.
"What have you done?"
"I like this voice better," he said, taking a moment to spin around in the hall and consider the ridiculously high ceiling – high enough to hang a whole string of people from the rafters without their tip toes even stroking against the heads of the oblivious people beneath, "The other one kind of sounds like you're smoking a pack a day – that can't be good for your little kiddy fans. Sends out the wrong message, know what I mean?"
"What the hell have you done?"
He allowed himself a pinched expression as he turned back to face Bruce and the butler.
"Why do you have to assume I've done something?"
"Because that's all you do."
"I'm insulted you think I'm that predictable," he said morosely, "Hell even I don't know what I'm going to do when I get up in the morning."
"Then why are you here?" Bruce asked, clearly weary of him already.
"No, no," he made a show of walking back towards the door, "If you're going to be so cold, sweet pea, I'm going."
"Give it up Joker."
Joker turned and smirked.
"Give up what, just so we're clear?"
"Is he always this disgusting?" he heard the butler mutter. He just smiled.
"You want my attention, fine. You have it but only for a moment. If you don't tell me what you're doing right now, I'll drive you back to Arkham."
"Look, I just told your butler that I've done nothing."
"Unlikely. There's always something. I doubt the doctors would ask questions if I drove you home," Bruce gritted out.
"Okay, fine," Joker sighed, a little reluctant to give up his theatrics but sensing, as he so easily did these days, just how close he was to being kicked outside, lifted by the throat, deposited in the Tumbler then flung back into his Arkham cell, "You need to mark the 20th of July in your calendar."
"Why? What are you planning?"
"Oh, it's not me though," he hissed, walking right up to the other man. Because that's what he was, dressed like this. He wasn't that curiously obnoxious wall of morals and integrity when he was dressed in his slave-labour-produced, supple leather shoes. Somehow, it was a little more personal though less thrilling than the latex (everyone has their kinks).
"No?"
"No. It's everyone else," he smiled wider, "Y'see, the – oh let's call 'em like we see 'em – the baddies around here are tired of you. You're a party pooper, cutie. So, they've decided it would be better to concentrate their efforts, to form a little allegiance and take you down together. Mobs, weird mutant-y types, psychos like Crane. They're all tired of you. They're handing Batman his eviction notice, basically. You need to be out by the 20th."
"Or?"
"Or," Joker waggled his head in thought momentarily, "Orrr, you can try and kill them all. Or you can die. Actually, that's pretty much one option: you can die. Go or die."
"No."
"No… to living and dying?"
"No, I'm not leaving."
"Then that's why I'm here," Joker shrugged coolly, "I'm a big fan of yours, as you know," Bruce's microscopically bewildered expression said he didn't know, "But I can tell you now: alone, you're fucked. And by alone I am including that riff-raff rabble of do-gooder cops you pal around with. If you're gonna weather this storm you've got to have more in your corner."
"I need no one."
"Aw, come on, you hurt Jeeves when you say that. And Gordy. You need all the friends you can get," Joker held out his left, gloveless hand, pinkie extended, "So, I propose we become BFFs."
It was practical edible, the tension in Bruce, how close he was to letting Batman take centre stage and throw Joker through a window (it might have been more exciting, Joker felt). Instead, the man's jaw worked imperceptibly as he focused on glaring into Joker's eyes, ignoring the hand entirely.
"No? Are you still BFFs with Harvey? Is that it? I think Harvey's BFFs with his other personality these day-" Joker earned himself a punch there. Hardly surprised he giggled off the sting as he stood back up to his full height and smirked expectantly at Bruce, "Okay, too soon."
"Shut up."
"Bruce- Batman," he implored, "I'm your biggest fan. You need me."
Bruce turned away with a shake of his head.
"All I have to prove that there is a plan is your word. Your word is worth less than dirt."
"Well, it's like a surprise party Brucey," Joker said, "You don't go tellin' everybody. But it's not just my word."
Instantly, Bruce had turned back to face him, expression darker than ever.
"No?"
"What? You haven't seen it? Seriously?" Joker asked, curiously. When Bruce continued to merely glare him down, one hand still curled into a ready fist at his side, he turned to Alfred, "Isn't it your job to look after this place?"
"What are you referring to?" Alfred hissed.
Actions spoke so much louder than words sometimes. Giant black question marks scrawled on cavernous ceilings spoke even louder than actions. Gesturing with one finger, Joker let the one in the hallway do the talking for him.
He came up alongside Bruce as the man and his butler stared upward in disbelief at the mark. Hell, he knew it had really had an impact when Bruce allowed him to loop a friendly arm about his shoulders and use the man as a crutch as he too cast his gaze towards the punctuation.
"Michelangelo really ran out of ideas there, huh?" he murmured, practically directly into the shell of Bruce's ear.
Bruce swivelled his head, gaze steely, to meet Joker's own. Joker gave a little wink.
"I take it that we've got a deal."
"Until I find out that you're implicated."
"Master Bruce-"
"No, no "Master Bruce"," Joker glared at Alfred, "We have a deal. BFFs. Three's a crowd Jeeves," he turned his attention back to Bruce to smile, "So, which room's mine?"
"None of them," Bruce hissed, finally pulling away from the other man who made a show of stumbling without the support.
"Really? You two guys must rattle around in a place this size. Do you have playboy bunnies clogging up all the other rooms or something?"
"You're not staying here?"
"So you're gonna send your one ally out to live among the enemy?" Joker said dubiously, "If you don't mind my saying, Brucey, it shows that you've been conducting a one man operation up 'til now."
"You're not staying here."
"Then I die," Joker emphasised each word coolly. He allowed himself a small smile, "And I think we all know what having my death on your conscience would do to you."
Bruce's face practically went into an emotional lockdown at the words.
"They're all empty," the man said, passionlessly, "Pick one," he shot a quick look at Alfred when the man stared, outraged at him.
Joker beamed. He stopped in front of Alfred to tap out several points with one index finger on the palm of his other hand, "I like to draw my own bath, I'm a late riser and I enjoy just a dash of honey in my morning tea."
"You'll enjoy your morning tea in your lap in you're not careful-"
"Jack. Jack Napier," Joker was pleased to see that the confession of his name – of no real importance or value to himself but apparently viewed as a serious revelation to Bruce – made the billionaire practically gawp, albeit for the briefest of moments.
"Mr Napier," Alfred smiled thinly.
"I'm glad we understand each other," Jack smiled pleasantly before stopping in front of Bruce, "You know which room I'm gonna pick Bruce?"
Bruce, resigned, merely raised his eyebrows.
Jack was sure to lean right up against Bruce as he whispered his answer.
"The one right next to yours."
